Hallucinogens
by Joanna Hepler
Summary: CHAPTER 15 UP! Hawkeye and Frank remain seriously ill, their illnesses different but somehow interrelated. The camp slowly begins to crack, and as investigations begin, many are thrust under the spotlight...
1. Chapter 1

**Hallucinogens (Guerra de Nervios)**

Hello! Welcome to another strange story of mine. I actually know what's going to happen in this one, sort of. Forgive the short chapters. I love this story to bits, so all comments are welcome. Positives will be welcomed, flames will roast my marshmallows quite nicely, thank you, and booze is always appreciated.

_Disclaimer: All I own is the idea. Everything else is Fox's. Some of the announcements were real ones, some I made up. I'll leave it to you to figure out which ones._

**Chapter 1 (They're short chapters, mind.)**

"_Attention, all personnel. Due to conditions beyond our control, we regret to announce that lunch is now being served."_

"You call this lunch?" Hawkeye muttered under his breath, as he and the others lined up for their serving of 'food.' Igor had really outdone himself; that day's meal had consisted of a strange, brown slab on a plate no one could quite identify and a helping of 'mashed potatoes.' Everyone agreed that it was universally "disgusting," even Frank and Margaret, who usually could find no fault with the Army.

"Hey, Igor!"

Igor looked up, searching for the source of the voice.

"What the hell is this stuff?"

Igor couldn't identify who was shouting at him or what the food was. "I don't know. It's what I'm given by the Army. Ask them." He continued spooning up serves of "potatoes" and was greeted by boos from the crowd.

Trapper and Hawkeye found a space and sat down. Trapper immediately began picking at the brown slab.

"Any idea what it is, Trapper?" asked Hawkeye as he took a bite.

Trapper stared at it from all angles, then shook his head. "Nope. I've got no idea. How does it taste?"

"Like unidentifiable brown slab. What about yours?" he asked, as Trapper piled some 'mashed potato' onto his slab, then onto his fork.

"Tastes like crap," Trapper offered, through a mouthful of slab and 'potato.' "I wish we could get sauce or flavouring, something to make it remotely taste like something."

"That would be an excellent idea," agreed Hawkeye.

They continued eating in silence, save for the odd grimace at the 'taste,' until their plates were clean.

Radar suddenly shouted "Choppers!" and ran out the door. Everyone knew what was coming next.

"_Attention all personnel! Incoming wounded! Both shifts to O.R. on the double! Incoming wounded!"_

By the time the announcement had finished, the mess tent all but was empty.

It was 5pm. The incoming wounded had all been taken care of. It had actually been a good day for the 4077th, because they lost no patients that day and everything was running smoothly. There had even been time for a throw of the football in the compound. Trapper and Hawkeye decided to have a few "celebratory martinis."

"What are we celebrating, exactly?" asked Trapper, who for a man only on his second drink sounded remarkably like a man on his sixth.

"We," began an already-stonkered Hawkeye, "are celebrating a Good Day. No one died, Klinger wore a funny dress and Frank wasn't an arsehole."

"I'll drink to that," declared Trapper. The two clinked glasses and drained their martinis in one gulp.

After a pause, Hawkeye regained his senses enough to ask a question. "Hey, Trap. Do you know where Frank is?"

"Who cares where he is? He's probably at Margaret's. Let's have another drink."

"All right then."

Hawkeye managed to get up and pour himself and Trapper another drink. The two continued happily drinking away, without a care in the world.

* * *

There we go. It's nothing spectacular as we start out, but I promise, things will start to happen in future chapters! (It'd be a boring story if they didn't… :D) It's sort of like the first Harry Potter book, starts out crap but gets better… Please read and review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (A longer chapter! Woot!)**

"_Attention, all personnel. There will be a surprise at lunch time today at 13:00 hours. Sadly, the answer is not fresh vegetables. Come one, come all to witness something you're not likely to see again soon. That's all, folks."_

The PA woke Hawkeye and Trapper, who had been comfortably sleeping off the effects of another night of drinking. Trapper sat up and rubbed his eyes, whereas Hawkeye would have literally rolled out of bed had the Still not been sitting next to it. Cursing himself for nearly destroying so sacred an object, Hawkeye rolled back into his cot and he too sat up.

"D'ya hear that, Hawk? A surprise at lunch!" Trapper was quite excited at the idea of something different (new wound varieties excluded of course).

"Well, it ain't vegetables, the PA said, so it must be something non-edible… even this lot wouldn't trumpet the arrival of a different variety of brown tasteless slab." Hawkeye hauled himself out of bed and started to get dressed, as did Trapper.

A thought struck Hawkeye. "Hey, Trap."

"What is it, Hawk?"

"Where's Frank? I mean, I don't remember seeing him in here when we went to sleep, and we were up pretty late."

"Didn't we ask that last night? Let's not get too worried." Trapper seemed, if anything, supremely unconcerned.

"We did… but that was last night, and he's still not here…"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. He's probably sneaking another snog with Margaret."

Hawkeye realised Trapper was probably right. "I suppose… well, let's get over to the Mess Tent and see what this big surprise is."

With that, the two doctors headed out of the Swamp towards the Mess Tent.

Trapper and Hawkeye were half-expecting many things; Klinger in a uniform/dressed up as something ridiculous, Margaret being civil, even something other than brown tasteless slab. As they walked into the Mess Tent, they were greeted by something they never thought they'd see.

Frank Burns donning a chef's hat and dishing out food.

One could almost hear the two's jaws crash onto the ground. Right in front of them was a smiling Frank, cracking jokes as he happily spooned onto trays servings of the ubiquitous "mashed potato." They couldn't believe their eyes.

"Pierce! McIntyre!" Frank spotted them and cast a joyful wave, looking happier than they'd seen him in months. "How do I look?" he asked, showing off the chef's hat he was sporting.

Trapper and Hawkeye glanced at each other. "It's, er, very nice, Frank," called out Trapper, slowly and with as much sincerity as he could muster, which admittedly wasn't a lot.

"Why, thank you. I think I could possibly get used to this!" called back Frank.

Hawkeye and Trapper joined the end of the line. When they got to Frank, they took the opportunity to give him a look from head to toe. Frank was beaming. Knowing that Frank rarely beamed about anything, they resolved to find out what was making him so damn happy.

"Well? Would you like some tasty, er, meat, or some flavoursome mashed potatoes?" Frank seemed all too eager to dish them up some "food."

Hawkeye answered, "Frank, we'll take the slab and the mystery mash, and don't put spin on it, you'll get our hopes up." He motioned to Trapper, who nodded in agreement.

"Two slabs and potatoes, coming up!" Frank splattered the "food" onto their trays. "Hope you like it!"

"Frank, that's ridiculous. This food is crap and everyone knows it." Hawkeye was beginning to get a little irritated.

As Hawkeye and Trapper sat down to eat, they noticed something very strange.

"It's not the food, Hawk," mumbled Trapper through another mouthful of 'potato,' "because that tastes the damn same; if anything, a little worse. It's the people! Look at them!"

Hawkeye turned around to see a tent-full of people, smiling and looking as they were thoroughly enjoying the food; a huge difference from their normal glum and/or disgusted looks. They all thought the food was fabulous. Hawkeye could even overhear snippets of conversation.

"…and Frank seemed really happy, I don't know what's gotten into him, he hates this stuff…"

"…that chef's hat looks ridiculous, but then again Frank looks ridiculous without it…"

"…the food tastes so much better! Igor must have done something to it because this is fantastic!..."

The whole tent was abuzz with conversation relating to the food and Frank's appearance behind the counter. Hawkeye and Trapper didn't bother joining them, choosing to sit and eat until they were finished.

Since there were no incoming casualties, Trapper and Hawkeye took the opportunity to sit in the Swamp, enjoying a martini… or three…

"You know, Hawk,"

"Mmmm?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Frank matter, which is a big deal because I don't normally do a lot of thinking."

Hawkeye couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, and?"

"And I think that Frank has a sinister motive."

"What, Frank trying to poison us? That's ridiculous. He knows that if we got sick, he'd have to do our work, and Frank would never want that. Plus, he'd have to take care of us and put up with us in the Swamp."

"I hadn't thought of the last one, good point Hawk…"

'Maybe Margaret asked him to."

"Nah, Margaret would want Frank to sit next to her always, and he couldn't do that if he was serving up slabs."

"_Attention all personnel. Incoming choppers with wounded. Report to the hospital, all personnel." _

The PA announcement cut short their discussion. The two men put down their martinis and got up. As Hawkeye stood up, he felt a little woozy.

"Hawkeye, you all right?"

"Of course I am; I've just had three martinis. Let's get to Pre-Op."

The two headed out the door, with Trapper in front. However, he noticed about halfway to Pre-Op that Hawkeye wasn't jogging next to him as normal. Trapper turned around just in time to see Hawkeye collapse on the hard, brown earth…

"HAWKEYE!"

…to be continued…

Well, if that isn't an overused "cliffhanger" then I don't know what is… Read and review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em.


	3. Chapter 3

_So here we come to Chapter Three! Be warned, this features Hawkeye going off the rails a bit. Some scenes may frighten young children, whom I doubt are reading this anyway. _

**Chapter 3 (Read the end of Chapter 2 if you can't remember exactly what happened.)**

_Note: Despite what you may think, and what I may write, this is a strictly Non-Slash Story. Affection only._

Trapper ran to where Hawkeye's crumpled body lay. His head was spinning. What happened? Why did Hawkeye suddenly collapse?

His shouts had attracted the attention of a few other people, who were crowding around Hawkeye. "Excuse me," he shouted as he wedged past the crowd to Hawkeye. He seemed to be breathing, which immediately put Trapper's mind at ease.

Trapper knelt beside his best friend and checked his breathing and pulse. They were irregular, but there.

"Hawkeye?" he quietly said. "Hawkeye! _Hawkeye!_" Trapper gently shook his friend. "Hawkeye! Oh, Hawkeye, please wake up, we need you now, please Hawkeye…"

Unfortunately for both, Frank Burns chose that particular moment to come across the scene.

"All of you! Away! Now!" He quickly shooed away the mob surrounding Trapper and Hawkeye, then cast his eye over the two. Trapper took no notice of him whatsoever, continuing to revive Hawkeye.

"McIntyre, what the hell are you doing? There are patients! There are choppers! Stop wasting your time!"

"What does it look like I'm doing, eating a ham sandwich? I'm trying to resuscitate Hawkeye! He's fainted!"

At that moment Trapper noticed a small flicker of movement, just a twitch, naught more, in Hawkeye's eyes. He pounced on this opportunity and began shaking him a little more violently, screaming his name.

"Hawkeye! Hawkeye, wake up, I know you're there!"

Hawkeye stirred, and gradually opened his eyes. "…what? What am I doing here?"

Trapper was overjoyed. "Hawkeye! Thank god for that, I was getting worried; now let's get you into Pre-Op." With the help of a nearby nurse, he got Hawkeye on his feet and helped him across the compound.

"Hey! Look at that!" Hawkeye cried.

Both Trapper and the nurse looked around. "What is it, Hawk?"

"Look! There's Klinger wearing a red ball gown!" Hawkeye pointed to the area just outside Margaret's tent. Klinger, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Hawkeye, he's not there, now don't trouble yourself, you're nearly at Pre-Op," soothed the nurse, a new one whom Trapper didn't recognise. He'd flirt with her later.

"But he is! He's there!" Hawkeye was convinced he could see Klinger, but the nurse and Trapper glanced at each other, then at the area at which Hawkeye was pointing. Klinger would have stuck out like a cactus had he been there, however he was definitely not. Trapper and the nurse continued helping Hawkeye to Pre-Op.

As the three squeezed in the door, Trapper couldn't help but speculate as to what had caused Hawkeye to firstly collapse and secondly "see" Klinger, when he wasn't there. He shook his head and continued in the door, before turning his attention to patients.

Another evening, another round of casualties. The OR was operating fairly much as it normally did. Trapper, however, was keeping a close eye on Hawkeye. He'd protested strongly at Trapper's suggestion that he take a rest for a while. Hawkeye had been adamant that he was fine to operate and Trapper hadn't the strength to argue.

"Geez, look at all this shrapnel, this kid looks like he swallowed a whole ammo dump."

"Hawkeye, what are you talking about? There's nothing there!"

"Trapper! Are you blind? You see that shrapnel? There and there and there and there!" Hawkeye pointed at all the 'shrapnel,' desperate to get Trapper to see things his way.

"Hawkeye, I don't see anything!"

"Stop arguing with me and help fix this kid up."

"Colonel Blake! We need help here!"

"Trapper, I don't need help! I need to get this shrapnel out!"

"Hawkeye! THERE IS NO SHRAPNEL!"

"Hold it! What's all this about?" Henry had just stormed over, half-curious and half-angry.

"Sir, Hawkeye keeps seeing shrapnel, but there's none there."

"You're right, McIntyre. Hawkeye, let up, you're done."

Hawkeye felt very confused. Surely they couldn't see all the shrapnel, just lying there! Why wouldn't they listen to him?

"Look! There IS shrapnel!" Hawkeye grabbed his scalpel and started feverishly digging at the "shrapnel."

Trapper and Henry glanced at each other for naught more than a millisecond before each grabbed a hold on one of Hawkeye's arms, pinning them to his sides.

"What the hell are you doing? I – need – to – get – this – shrapnel – OUT!" he shouted, furiously attempting to free his arms.

Radar hurried in, holding a long length of rope. "I brought the rope to tie up Hawkeye, sir."

"Radar, would you get some rope to – oh, stop doing that!" Henry exclaimed as he took the rope and began tying up Hawkeye with it.

"LET ME OUT!" Hawkeye screamed.

Margaret chose this moment to storm over, thunderous.

"Can you get this man out of here? _Some_ of us are trying to work!" she yelled at Henry, who was having a hard time keeping Hawkeye relatively still.

Trapper muttered a few choice words that would have shocked even the most hardened Marine.

Henry shouted above the din, "McIntyre, let's get him out."

The two managed to pick up a squirming and screaming Hawkeye and carry him out into the compound.

Once outside, they surveyed the wriggling figure from above. Henry turned to Trapper. "You have any idea what caused this?"

Trapper shook his head. "Nope. Maybe it was something he ate… but he's eaten the same stuff that I did, and I'm not shrieking about shrapnel in a patient that no one else can see…"

"In any case, I think he needs to be sedated," shouted Henry, raising his voice at the end as Hawkeye began a fresh round of screeching.

Trapper nodded his head and rushed inside the hospital. Three minutes later he returned with a needle filled with sedatives.

"I hate to do this," said Henry as he plunged the needle into Hawkeye's arm, "but we don't have a choice." He went back inside to dispose of it and presumably attend to patients. Trapper knelt down besides the now-sedated Hawkeye. He slowly undid the ropes binding his friend. Looking around, he quietly picked up Hawkeye and carried him back to the Swamp, where Trapper laid him on his cot.

Hawkeye's face seemed so peaceful, so at ease. Trapper couldn't help but smile at his best friend, his soulmate. For the first time, Hawkeye seemed utterly happy without also being utterly drunk, a fact not lost on Trapper.

Trapper gently stroked Hawkeye's hair. "You silly man, you… causing trouble for us… but we love you anyway." Trapper bent down and planted a soft goodnight kiss on Hawkeye's cheek.

"Sweet dreams, Hawk."

Trapper then poured himself a small martini and drained the glass as quickly as he'd filled it. Remembering that there were patients to treat, he quickly but quietly made his way out the door.

Little did Trapper know that things were about to get, for everyone, a whole lot worse…

* * *

Yep. I know, the end line sucks. :D Feed the manic review monster! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. 


	4. Chapter 4

_Hey hey! Welcome to Chapter 4! Firstly, thankyou _**VERY**_ much to all the people who reviewed! It really made my day. Now, onto the story. Notice as you go along, the chapters get longer? Like Harry Potter books:D_

_Sorry I haven't updated for a week, the internet screwed itself up and I couldn't log on! Yay! Not._

**The Extra-Long Chapter 4 (Enjoy!)**

_Warning: Some bad language in this chapter. Don't say I didn't tell you._

Knock, knock. The door of the Swamp gently opened. Radar knew the recipient wasn't going to like the news he brought, especially since it was three a.m. and all occupants needed their sleep.

Radar quietly moved to Trapper's bedside. He gently shook the figure lying on the cot, still in surgery gear. Trapper had collapsed, exhausted, on the bed not five hours previously. When Trapper had gone to bed, Hawkeye had still been sedately sleeping.

"Trapper?"

"No, Kathy, the dog's food is not your food..." Trapper mumbled and turned around.

"Trapper? Trapper. Trapper-shhhhh, be quiet, wake up."

"Kathy, no, naughty girl, don't eat that... wha?" Trapper slowly opened his eyes, to be greeted by a face-full of Radar.

"What is it, Radar? There aren't more damn choppers, are there?"

"No, no, it isn't choppers, sir."

"Well, what is it then?"

Radar paused, hoping he wouldn't get hit with a pillow. "Er, Hawkeye's in the latrine, talking to himself, and I thought maybe you could get him to stop, sir."

"Oh, shit a brick!" That had woken Trapper up quick-smart, much to his annoyance.

Radar was at a loss as to how to answer this. "Er, wouldn't that be a bit painful, sir?"

As expected, Trapper wasn't amused. "Never mind. What the hell is he doing talking to himself in the latrine?"

"I don't know, sir, I thought you could find out."

Trapper hauled himself out of bed. "Dammit, Radar, I'm gonna be cranky in a few hours."

Radar sat on the cot, shaking. "Are you angry, sir?"

Trapper turned around. Noticing how nervous Radar seemed to be, he pulled Radar beside him. "No, I'm not angry. I'm just extremely pissed off that I get woken at such a stupid hour to fetch my best friend from the latrine he seems to be talking to!"

"Oh, er, that's okay then."

Radar was too relieved that Trapper wasn't angry to say much. He managed to nod as Trapper headed out the door. Frank let out an extra loud snore as the door closed behind them.

As Trapper and Radar approached the latrine, Hawkeye could clearly be heard having a conversation inside.

Trapper whispered, "You sure there ain't a nurse in there?"

Radar nodded. "They'd be kissing by now, and being a bit louder, sir."

"True," nodded Trapper. Wondering silently how Radar came across this snippet of information, they quietly sneaked up to the door.

"...Well, I don't know about you, Trapper, but I thought Nurse Baker was quite something... Oh, really? I thought so too..."

Trapper turned to Radar. "He's talking to me! He thinks he's talking to me, but I reckon he's talking to the wall."

"But, sir, why would Hawkeye be talking to the wall? I mean, you share a tent, he could, er, talk to you in person if he wanted, sir."

"Radar, I'm not sir. I'm Trapper. And I don't know why he's talking to the wall. I thought that's what you wanted me to find out."

"Sir, um, I have an idea."

"What is it, Radar?"

"Sir, maybe he's sleepwalking…"

If anyone else had been around to witness the goings-on, it would have been considered a rather comical sight; two grown men with their ears pressed to the latrine door, listening to another grown man (apparently) having a conversation with the latrine wall. However, the nature of the situation meant it was anything but comical.

"Sir?"

"It's Trapper, dammit. Trapper."

"Oh, sorry, Trapper... don't you think he's seeing things?"

"He must be, because I'm not in there, and he seems to be talking to me..."

A loud laugh coming from inside the latrine briefly spooked the twosome.

"...ha, that's the best joke I've heard in a long time... haha, the parrot fell off his perch... heeheehee..."

Trapper turned to Radar and sighed. "Apparently I'm quite the joker now... oh, hell, if he keeps laughing like that, the whole camp's gonna wake up."

"Are you going to wake him up, er...Trapper?"

Trapper pulled his face into something resembling a thinking expression. "Well, it doesn't look like I've got a lot of choice... but how? He's going to be pretty confused if two Trappers start talking to him... maybe you should, Radar."

Radar immediately froze. "What? Me? But... but..."

"No buts, Radar. You can do it."

Radar was very hesitant, with apprehension etched into his face. "Well... if you say so, Trapper..."

He slowly knocked on the door of the latrine.

Trapper whispered, "Radar! Now!" and the vertically-challenged Corporal gently opened the creaky door. He was greeted by a rather startling view of Hawkeye sitting on half of the latrine facing the opposite wall. Evidently "Trapper" was taking up the other half.

"Hold on, I've got to go now, Trapper, the door opened. See you around!" Hawkeye, eyes shut, turned to the open door and actually managed to step out. Trapper had to very quickly sidestep behind the door to avoid Hawkeye crashing into him.

As Hawkeye trundled along towards the Swamp, Trapper jumped back out from behind the door. As the light was very poor, befitting the ridiculous hour at which they were all awake (or asleep in Hawkeye's case), neither Trapper nor Radar could get a good view of Hawkeye, but Trapper was sure he would in the morning.

"That was excellent, Radar. Brilliant job," Trapper said to Radar as they watched Hawkeye.

Suddenly it occurred to them that Hawkeye was incapable of opening the door of the Swamp.

"Oh, dammit!" Trapper suddenly ran across to the Swamp and quietly opened the door just before Hawkeye got there, leaving a befuddled Radar to wonder and watch.

It was a matter of seconds before Hawkeye came bumbling in. "Now, then-"

"Shhhh." Trapper took hold of him and gently but firmly forced him into his cot. Hawkeye, acting in a manner not unlike that when he was drunk, didn't argue, only mumbling the occasional "What?" and "Trapper?" Trapper pulled a blanket over Hawkeye, then surveyed him from above.

"You really are a handful, aren't you?" he muttered to himself. Shaking his head, Trapper stifled a yawn before heading over to his own cot and lying down.

While Trapper drifted to sleep, Frank let out a large snore. Unusually for Frank, it was a fake one. As soon as he was certain Trapper was dead to the world, he tiptoed out of the Swamp – no mean feat considering the complete lack of floorspace in the tent – before heading over to the 44-gallon drums at the edge of camp often used by Hawkeye and Trapper as post-drinking puking receptacles. Frank didn't even get there. He was naught more than halfway when his legs buckled and the contents of his stomach emptied themselves all over the ring road in the compound. _Splat._ The remains of that day's slab and "potatoes" came to rest on the gravel.

"Oh my goodness… what happened?" Frank thought to himself as he went down on his knees and his stomach continued to empty. Frank had never felt sicker in his life. It was rare for him to become ill; _many_ negative adjectives were commonly used to describe him, but "hypochondriac" was not one of them. "How come I feel like absolute crap? I don't understand it!"

As Frank Burns persisted in throwing up, the shadowy figure of a certain vertically-challenged Corporal made his way across the compound to his office…

That was my biggest cliffhanger yet! Good or bad, I'll leave you to decide. Review! Review! Review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em.


	5. Chapter 5

_Aha! Chapter 5! I do hope you enjoyed the cliffy at the end of the last chapter. I know I did. Thankyou to the wonderful people who review this story; you fill my inbox with something other than junk and chain letters._

The Mega-Enormous Three-for-the-Price-of-One Chapter 5 (now with Intermission:D) 

_Notes:_

_1) Please keep in mind that I am not a doctor and if I get some medical details wrong it is inadvertently. I actually looked up a book for this. :P _

_2) All temperatures are in Fahrenheit, because that's what they would have used._

_3) Warning: low- to medium-level mush. It's annoying, but necessary._

_And just in case you've forgotten, I own the idea. Nothing else. It all belongs to Fox, lucky buggers._

As the harsh sun rose over the Korean mountains, the Swamp was disturbingly silent. Trapper John McIntyre woke at eight a.m. that morning, after having had sporadic bouts of sleep the previous night, to a blinding sun and an eerily quiet tent. Hawkeye Pierce was sleeping away in the exact same position Trapper had laid him four hours before. Frank Burns was nowhere in sight. Since Frank rising before the troublesome two was a regular occurrence, Trapper paid no attention to his absence.

Until, that is, a cry erupted from the compound.

"Frank Burns is lying unconscious on the ground, with vomit all over him!"

In a small office not so far away, Radar O'Reilly sat in bed, fearful. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before, which was unheard of as Radar was known to be a very deep sleeper. He was all but terrified of what he had seen the previous night. He'd been just about to head back to bed when he'd noticed Frank slip out, and knowing that he'd be verbally abused to within an inch of his life if Frank noticed him wisely decided to stay where he was, just behind the latrine door and out of sight.

"He looked like he was drunk, but I figured he wasn't because he doesn't drink that much," mused Radar, hugging his teddy bear tight. "But then his legs collapsed and he started vomiting all over the compound. When his back was turned, I ran back to my office. I didn't dare help him." He felt very confused at all the goings-on around him. First Hawkeye starts talking to the latrine wall, then Frank vomits in the compound? Something was up, but Radar didn't know what it was.

It was all too much to handle. Shaking his head, Radar got up and headed out the door, hoping to find something to eat at the mess tent. He was greeted by the sight of Frank Burns lying side-on, vomit spattered all over his army jacket and the surrounding ground.

"Oh my goodness…!" Radar put his hands to his mouth. His head swam. "I-I-I don't know what's going on! I don't understand it! Wha-wha-what's Frank doing lying on the ground!"

He rushed out of his office to join the gawking crowd near where Frank lay.

Trapper could hear the shouts from the Swamp. These shouts were varied, ranging from "Haha! Frank Burns is an idiot!" to "Doesn't he look silly?" to "GET A DOCTOR, NOW!" There was no doubt the last one could only be Margaret Houlihan. Knowing the shouts were only going to get worse, Trapper hauled himself out of bed, resisting the temptation to tickle Hawkeye awake, and headed out.

The sight that greeted him was one he never thought he'd see. A small crowd of people hovered near Frank; they couldn't get any closer because of the vile stench. Margaret was yelling at anyone who got near to fetch a doctor. Two nurses spotted Trapper just coming out of the Swamp, eyes blinking like a mole.

"Hey Trapper, we need your help. Major Houlihan keeps screaming for a doctor because Frank's unconscious with vomit all down his front," they pleaded with Trapper.

"All right, all right, I'll see to it." He brushed off the two nurses and headed towards Frank, who looked in a very bad way.

Once Trapper reached the Major (after banishing serious thoughts of going back for a gas mask) he called for a large bucket of water, which was quickly fetched by the two nurses. Trapper took the bucket from them in one swift motion and _splash!_ emptied its contents on Frank in one go. This had a double-sided effect; it woke Frank and cleaned off some of the remaining dried vomit.

Frank spluttered and shook his head. "Bleargh! What the…" He trailed off when he noticed the puddle of vomit near his feet; in that moment it all came flooding back, as his stomach again threatened to burst. Instinctively, he put his hands to his abdomen as the pain worsened. He almost wished he was still unconscious; at least he wouldn't have to deal with this.

He looked up to find himself eye-to-eye with Trapper, who was wearing something approaching a worried look.

"Hey, Frank. You feeling alright?"

"Do I look…ergh…alright to you?" Frank hadn't meant it to come out so harshly, but the man was a doctor and should be able to tell…

"To be honest, Frank, you look like crap, and that's from a medical perspective. Now tell me. What's wrong?" Trapper tried to sound as kind as he could, considering he was speaking to Frank, and it seemed to work. Frank's face softened a tad and whispered, "It's my stomach. It… it… feels like it's going to explode."

Trapper turned around and whistled for one of the nurses to bring him a thermometer. He looked to Frank with as kindly an expression as he could manage. Frank's face softened even further, not being in much of a position to criticise.

Trapper took the thermometer from the nurse. Frank automatically opened his mouth, in an apparent effort to behave, and didn't say a word when Trapper stuck it in. When he took the thermometer out, he stared at it for a few seconds, not believing what he saw, and then…

"Nurse! Nurse! Get me a stretcher now!" Trapper yelled furiously to anyone who would listen. Radar and another nurse ran to Post-Op and returned two minutes later with a stretcher.

"What's going on, McIntyre?" Frank asked weakly.

"You're very sick, Frank, but we're-" Trapper stopped.

"You're what, McIntyre? Tell me."

Frank was by now very weak, barely able to speak. He reminded Trapper of a small child, sickly, afraid and powerless. It was a far cry from the strong, domineering yet whiny man they all knew too well. As Trapper and Radar (in a show of strength rarely seen from him) lifted Frank onto the stretcher, heading to Post-Op, Trapper whispered,

"We're gonna take care of you, Frank."

_Since I'd normally have a chapter break here, we'll call this Intermission. Have a break from reading, if you want to._

Hawkeye Pierce woke four hours past this incident, also to an eerily quiet (and empty) tent. He assumed that everyone else had already started work and that he had been left to sleep.

As he had no intention of getting up unless he was required to, Hawkeye pondered the events of the previous day. He was still certain there had been shrapnel in that poor man's body, but the way he had been hauled out of the O.R. and apparently sedated implied to him that this had not been so. If anything else had happened since then, he wasn't aware of it – though he did remember having a peculiar dream the previous night about talking to Trapper in a latrine…

Hawkeye lay in his cot, at peace. Unfortunately for him, the peace didn't last.

"Hawkeye! Rise and shine, sleepyhead." Trapper came banging into the tent, looking a right mess.

"I'm busy. Come back when the war's over."

"Hawkeye, you have to get up now. It's lunchtime." Trapper attempted to roll Hawkeye over, with limited success.

"Trapper, I'm not eating that crap. It's disgusting."

"You've been saying that since we got here. You don't have a choice. Now _get up_."

Realising that argument was pointless, Hawkeye reluctantly got up out of bed.

As the two walked into the Mess Tent, they noticed Henry Blake in the same position Frank had been in the previous day, sporting the same chef's hat. Looking around, Trapper spotted Radar, with a frightened look on his face. Trapper made a mental note to talk to Radar later on.

"Hey hey!" Henry noticed the two walking in. "How are you today, fellas?"

Hawkeye replied, "I feel fine, very refreshed. And you?"

"Yeah, not bad, not bad, considering I'm doing this crummy job."

Trapper asked, "Then why are you doing it?"

Henry looked at them sheepishly and said, "Igor and the kitchen hands bullied me into it. Seems they'd gotten used to an extra pair of hands."

"As long as the 'mashed potato' tastes better than it did yesterday we're fine with it."

The two joined the end of the line. Henry didn't seem to be quite as beaming as Frank was, but then again, Frank had volunteered.

When Henry had served them "Enjoy your food, but I don't blame you if you don't" the twosome sat down at the end of a long trestle table. Trapper ended up next to Radar, still wearing the frightened expression.

Hawkeye noticed. "Hey Radar, what's wriggling in your food?"

Radar jumped and started probing through his food looking for something. "Er, nothing, sir. Is there, er, supposed to be?"

"No, no, don't worry. I meant to ask: what's wrong?"

Radar glanced at Trapper, who was ever-so-gently shaking his head. If Radar told Hawkeye about his 3 a.m. exploits he would protest strongly that such an occurrence ever took place.

"Oh, er, nothing sir. Just, er, a little tired, that's all."

Hawkeye brought his head down to be eye level with Radar. "Look Radar, you're not telling me the truth. There's something bugging you. What is it?"

Once again Radar looked to Trapper, still shaking his head, enough for Radar to get the message but softly enough so Hawkeye wouldn't suspect anything.

"I'm telling you Hawkeye, sir, it's nothing. I didn't get a great sleep," he added on the end, which was true; he'd barely slept a wink.

Appreciating that he wasn't going to get anything out of Radar, Hawkeye resigned himself to being kept in the dark and continued eating, occasionally stopping to grimace at the 'taste.'

"_Attention, all personnel. There are no incoming wounded expected for at least 12 hours. Colonel Blake would like to remind you all that this is a great opportunity to catch up on some tent-cleaning. That's all, folks."_

The two Captains looked over to Henry, who upon catching sight of their sharp eyes suddenly busied himself with scrubbing dishes.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat for a little longer," Trapper said, standing up as he spoke, "but there are patients to attend to. Radar, I need a hand with something," he added, motioning his head in the direction of Post-Op. Radar nodded slowly, careful not to attract Hawkeye's eye. "See you there, Hawk."

"What? Oh, right, see you there." Hawkeye hadn't really been listening; he'd been too busy contemplating whether he'd "see" more shrapnel in kids' bodies before too long. He stood up and waited until Trapper and Radar had left before heading to work.

The two continued to Post-Op. Radar looked to the Captain.

"Er, Trapper?"

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

"Is Hawkeye going to operate today? I mean, he was kinda whacked-out last night…"

"Well, Radar, with Frank as sick as he is we don't have much choice. I mean, Frank was a rubbish surgeon anyway, but he was an extra pair of hands."

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Radar seemed concerned, an image he didn't want to portray.

"I've got a shrewd idea. Don't trouble yourself, Radar. Just stay out of Margaret's way, that's all."

Trapper opened the Post-Op door and the two went inside.

When Trapper walked in, he found Margaret already by Frank's bedside, muttering soothing words to a clearly agitated Frank. Margaret looked up, looking almost relieved.

"McIntyre, thank god you're here. Frank has a terrible fever, it's nearly 108 degrees! You must do something!"

Trapper rushed to Frank's bed, thermometer in hand. How the thermometer got there or why he had it (Margaret had just told him Frank's temperature) was anyone's guess.

"Now, open your mouth Frank."

"Ahh." Frank, so far, had been co-operating very well. He hadn't complained or made a pain of himself, something Trapper greatly appreciated.

"All right, now how's your stomach feeling?" Trapper gently prodded Frank's stomach area.

"OWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Frank howled with pain. Margaret rushed to comfort him.

"There, there, Frank, you'll be all right," she cooed.

Trapper stood up and looked down on Frank. "Well, Frank, I think I know what you've got."

Frank looked up at Trapper, eyes wide and fearful. "What is it, McIntyre? Is it serious?"

Trapper was sorely tempted to make something up and scare Frank into thinking he was sicker than he was, but he decided against it. This was more serious than just playing games.

"You've got gastroenteritis, Frank. Normally it's a mild illness-" here he saw Frank slump slightly in relief – "but you've got a very serious case."

Frank's face crumpled, just like that of the small child he now so greatly resembled. Trapper could have sworn he saw a glimmer of tear in the corner of Frank's eye.

"How… how long will it take for me to get better?" Frank quietly asked, his eyes huge, looking in fear at the man who could save him.

Now it was Trapper's turn to look wistful. He had no sympathy for Frank – hell, the only person who did was Margaret – but only he really understood how sick the man really was.

"I don't know, Frank. I honestly don't know. The best thing for you now is rest. Try to relax. And Margaret?" added Trapper, looking at the nurse. "Make sure he doesn't get too agitated."

"Yes, doctor," replied Margaret respectfully. Though she wasn't a doctor, she had enough experience to realise her love was very, very ill.

The Captain and the nurse both filed out the door, having other patients to attend to. Frank, partially sitting up in the bed, felt his eyes fill with tears…

Aw. Mush city. Bleargh. So that brings us to the end of the Mega-Huge Twice-as-Big-as-the-Last-Chapter Chapter 5! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em.


	6. Chapter 6

_Woohoo! I now reach Chapter 6. I really liked the last chapter, and I hope you did too. Now. Let's get on with it._

Chapter 6 (I really can't believe I've gotten this far!) 

_Notes:_

_1) Some mush. Annoying but necessary._

_2) Some bad language. Neither of the above._

_3) I'm not a doctor and if I get any medical details wrong it is inadvertently. Don't get annoyed if some little details are wrong._

"Hey, Trapper!"

Trapper turned around to be greeted by a slightly angry Hawkeye.

"What's Frank in there for? He's a doctor, not a patient! Are you letting him-"

"Hawkeye! Shhhh! Frank's been diagnosed with severe gastroenteritis. He's to be left in peace; the last thing he needs is to be getting nervous." Trapper peeked through the door to Frank's bed. He sighted Frank sitting up, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh, shit a brick," muttered Trapper. "Hawkeye, could you get Major Houlihan for me?"

Hawkeye turned to fetch Margaret. It was her job to dispense kind words and support, and Trapper's to dispense medicines.

Barely seconds later had Hawkeye returned with Margaret in tow. She hardly took a look through the door before rushing though the door to again comfort Frank. The two doctors simultaneously grimaced.

"You'd think she could leave him alone to sulk for one second, just _one_, but no! She's there in a flash!" remarked Trapper.

"Hey, you're the one who called for her," Hawkeye pointed out.

"I wanted to speak with her, not watch her comfort Ferret Face."

A pause. Hawkeye took a deep sigh.

"Trapper, did anything else happen yesterday after… O.R.?" he asked. Hawkeye had a sneaking suspicion there was something he wasn't being told. Logic told him that Frank could not have suddenly ended up in Post-Op with gastroenteritis. Trapper was hiding something from him.

Trapper had not looked forward to this question. Though he'd realised it would be asked eventually, he was at a loss as to how it should be answered. He decided that honesty was the best policy and prepared himself to deal with it later.

"Yeah, actually, a few things."

"Like what?" Hawkeye asked inquisitively.

"Well, firstly Radar found you sleeptalking to me in the latrine at three in the morning-"

Hawkeye was shocked; he hadn't expected this. "What? Me? Sleeptalking? You gotta…" He trailed off when he realised Trapper was deadly serious, even a tad angry.

"-and then some nurses found Frank unconscious with vomit all around him a few hours later. We don't know how he got there, but he had a high fever and apparently a lot of stomach pain. So there. You're filled in." finished Trapper.

"Did I do that too in my sleep?" half-joked Hawkeye. He was met with one of the iciest glares he'd ever seen from Trapper.

"You should be thankful Radar found you, goodness knows what else you would have done…"

"_Attention all personnel. Attention. Incoming wounded. Incoming wounded. Both shifts report to surgery on the double."_

Trapper barely had time to finish his sentence when Hawkeye rushed out the door to greet the incoming patients. He quickly followed suit.

Once again Hawkeye was operating, along with his fellow surgeons. Trapper hadn't even bothered offering advice of a rest from surgery; he knew it would be thoroughly ignored. Frank was still too sick to operate so Radar was calling I-Corps to find a replacement, thus far without success.

The O.R. session dragged on. As Hawkeye and Trapper had no one to antagonise, and having to take on Frank's work, they kept quiet and to themselves. Henry once remarked to them that it was a welcome change, but another icy glare from Trapper soon quietened him.

Fourteen hours and counting. The huge load was beginning to take its toll.

"Klinger!" yelled Trapper. "How many patients are there left?"

"Eight," came the reply from Pre-Op. Once again, Trapper muttered some choice oaths even Hawkeye would blush at.

_Clang_. Hawkeye suddenly gripped onto the edge of the table for support. Trapper looked over.

"You right there, Hawk?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

In his usual brusque manner, Hawkeye replied, "Yeah, I'm fine, no worries."

The work continued. However, a few minutes later, another _clang_ could be heard; this one louder and stronger.

"Hawkeye, are you sure that-"

_Thunk._ Without warning or so much as a shriek, Hawkeye Pierce's legs buckled and he fell to the floor. Trapper was there in an instant.

"Holy shit, Hawkeye, not again…" He felt for his pulse. There was none.

Henry Blake rushed over to find Trapper doing CPR on Hawkeye in the small space between operating tables.

"Defibrillation!"

"Doctor, they won't reach."

"I don't care! Make them reach!" yelled Trapper, startling Henry.

The poor nurse somehow got the two metal plates to reach the floor.

"Three, two, one, CLEAR!"

_Zzzzzt._ The plates buzzed. Hawkeye's body involuntarily jumped at the current, but went limp immediately afterwards.

"Dammit. Again! Three, two, one, CLEAR!"

_Zzzzzt._ The plates buzzed. This time, Hawkeye's body jumped, but didn't go limp.

Trapper once more felt for his pulse. It was weak and unstable, but there.

"Right, he's got a pulse, now-"

"Someone get Klinger to-"

"I brought a stretcher, sir." Klinger appeared at the door.

"Dammit, Klinger you're pulling a Radar on me… get that stretcher here NOW!"

Klinger brought over the stretcher and helped Henry and Trapper lift up Hawkeye onto it, and into Post-Op. They laid him on the ground next to Frank's bed, there being no other space due to their deluge of casualties. Henry rushed back into O.R. Trapper continued trying to revive him.

Frank, who had been quietly reading a book, jumped at this sudden intrusion. He looked up and then down to see Hawkeye lying at his bedside.

"McIntyre!" he hissed. "What the hell is going on?"

Without even looking up Trapper replied, "Hawkeye's fainted in O.R.-"

"_Again!_"

"-and I'm putting him here to recuperate. You give him grief and I give you hell."

Frank could only stare open-mouthed as Trapper rushed back out the door. His constitution was so delicate that even the slightest intrusion could have serious knock-on effects. Even then Frank felt the pain run through his stomach, and he clutched it instinctively.

"Henry?"

A small murmur issued from beside Frank's bed. Feeling thoroughly irritated at this point, Frank looked down. Hawkeye seemed to still be unconscious, or at most asleep; his eyes were shut tight and his body lay still.

"Shush, Pierce." muttered Frank.

"Henry? Henry, are you there?"

"No, he's not. Quieten down, Pierce," whispered Frank, in an annoyed tone. The last thing he needed or wanted was Hawkeye talking in his sleep.

"But I-I can see him, he's there, come back Henry." Hawkeye didn't stir, save for his lips which moved more softly than Frank had ever seen.

"Look, Pierce, Blake is not here and won't be here for some time. Now shush already." Frank settled himself back in bed and picked up his book.

"But Henry… don't touch those…"

Frank stopped and leaned over again, keeping himself together as the pain seared through him.

"Don't touch what, Pierce?"

"Henry… don't touch those… no… Henry… Trapper… Frank…"

All of a sudden Frank sat up straight. His blood ran cold. His stomach was scorched with pain. A hideous mix of fire and ice danced inside him. At first he couldn't place it. Something awakened inside him, but he didn't know what; the memory remained just out of reach. There was more to it than the mere utterance of his name. How could this happen? How could these (seemingly) innocent utterings of a madman unconscious provoke such a reaction, unknown to all but him?

Frank decided to leave the matter for now and return to reading his book… but it niggled away inside of him. The fire in his stomach ate away at him. There was something there… something he was forgetting… but what was it? What was this sudden deluge of memory being held back by mental floodgates?

"Uuuuuurgh…" Frank involuntarily moaned with pain. He slid down his cot, book next to him. The venom persisted inside, draining his energy away. Finally he hadn't the strength to keep his eyes open.

Frank closed his eyes; his body went limp. The fire raged on.

Trapper paced up and down the Swamp, carefully avoiding trampling anything breakable. That O.R. session had been one of his worst; with two surgeons out of action, the seemingly endless stream of patients seemed just that little bit longer. After checking on the ill doctors (Hawkeye with a pulse and breathing, but still unconscious; Frank white as a sheet and sicker than ever) he'd headed straight for the Swamp and poured himself the biggest martini he'd had in a long time. He'd been too out of it to notice Radar slip past him into the Swamp and hold his glass.

"Radar, I just don't get it. This place is going to the dogs. Hawkeye's delirious and Frank's an inch away from death. What the hell happened?" He threw his arms in the air in desperation. "God help us if we get any more casualties."

Radar stared at Trapper, being unable to think of anything to say. He hadn't been in the O.R. or Post-Op. He felt a bit out of the loop, but he was willing to listen to whatever Trapper happened to say.

"Right. That's it, Radar," stated Trapper suddenly, jolting Radar awake.

"Er, what's it, sir?" asked Radar.

"You and I are going to find out who the hell did this." Trapper proclaimed.

"Did what, sir?"

Trapper's shoulders slumped and he turned to Radar, glaring. "Made Hawkeye and Frank so sick!"

Radar involuntarily shrank back at Trapper's icy stare, not unlike the one he had given to Hawkeye earlier on. Earlier on… it seemed like eons ago to Trapper. It had been only yesterday they'd all been sitting in the mess tent, "enjoying" the "food" that Igor so outstandingly prepared. Now two doctors were sick and the 4077th was in a state of organised chaos.

Hang on… food… chaos…

"That's it!"

If you've followed this story, you can probably guess at what's coming next... :D There you have it! The Only-Half-as-Big-as-the-Last-Chapter-but-Still-Big Chapter 6! Reckoned it was time to bring in a little more plot, otherwise this is going to drag on for ages… Read and review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. Chapter 7 coming soon!


	7. Chapter 7

_Aha! Chapter 7 awaits you! My thanks to all who read this story and send reviews; I checked my email after a week and a half of having Screwed-Up Internet and there, in amongst all the crap I get, were reviews! Reviews, children! How joyous!_

_Thanks again for reviews. Gripes have been noted._

_Note: You know how I said this was a Non-Slash Story a few chapters back? Well I shall broaden that to a Non-Lots-of-Romantic-Activity Story. I hate romance. Yes, there'll be affection and whatnot, but I'll leave the romance to those best adept at writing it. Anyhow, on with the show…_

Chapter 7 (strangely enough) 

"That's it!" Trapper announced excitedly.

"What's it, sir?" mumbled a bewildered Radar.

"I think I've just figured out how Hawkeye and Frank might have gotten sick."

"Erm… I didn't know you did much thinking, sir."

"Mmmm, normally not, but you know, desperate times and all that."

"I see, sir. How?"

"The food."

It all seemed so obvious to Trapper, so simple, not unlike a difficult riddle one ponders for days and then laughs at when the answer is reached. How could he not have seen this sooner?

"You know how shoddy a cook Igor is, he must have poisoned it with something."

Radar didn't want to believe that, partly due to his knowledge of the availability of poison (you needed a damn good reason and he didn't know anyone with one), partly due to his almost complete lack of understanding of the whole situation, and partly due to his disbelief that anyone would _want_ to do something like that. He knew that there were some fairly shady people around the 4077th who'd do anything to get rid of a few others, but _poisoning_ them…?

"Uh, sir, I've got some, er, stuff to do. I'll see you later." Radar quickly got up and made his way to the door of the Swamp, satisfied that Trapper could hold his own glass and wishing to get out of the conversation.

"All right. But Radar?" called Trapper as Radar stuck one foot out the door.

"Yes… Trapper?"

"Would you be able to help me track down whoever did this? I won't be able to do all this thinking on my own."

For the first time, a smile crept onto Radar's face, something Trapper couldn't help but emulate.

"I'd be honoured, sir." Radar would have saluted if he hadn't known Trapper would throttle him for it, and headed back to his office. The time was three a.m. Knowing the camp was in sleep mode, he decided he'd follow them to the Land of Nod. He looked around; there was no one else in sight. Radar was silently thankful that nothing had occurred that night in the way of sleepwalking doctors or vomiting surgeons. He reached his bed in a minute and fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Trapper looked at the Still wistfully, almost as if it were a good hour to have a drink. Usually, any hour counted as a good hour… but there were only four hours of guaranteed sleep left in the night and he wanted to make the most of them. God only knew what would be in store for them all the next day.

In one swift movement Trapper collapsed onto his bed with an almighty _creak_ and fell asleep almost instantly. It had been a hell of a long day.

For the first time he could remember, Trapper woke up without the company of the Swamp rats. To say he didn't miss Frank would be a huge understatement; on the contrary, he almost hoped he wouldn't come back. Hawkeye, however, was a different kettle of fish.

"Damn food, look what it's done to us," Trapper muttered as he got dressed. "I mean, I couldn't care less about Frank, but Hawkeye…" He was thankful Hawkeye wasn't as seriously ill as Frank; he didn't think he could handle that.

_Rat-tat-tat._ A knock at the door.

"Anyone with bad news gets a guaranteed appendectomy," called out Trapper.

Radar opened the door. Trapper wasn't displeased to see him; he hoped Radar hadn't forgotten about their agreement the previous night.

"Uh, sir-"

"Trapper."

"Right. Uh, Trapper, I've managed to find another doctor to replace Hawkeye. His name is Captain James McCulloch and he will be arriving at oh-nine-hundred-hours."

Well, that was small comfort… "Only one?"

Radar nodded his head. "I'm afraid so, Trapper, he was the only one free."

Trapper thanked Radar and sent him on his way. Though the 4077th was still in desperate need of more surgeons, three was a damn sight better than two.

"Well, I can't stay in here all day, I've got to get moving," he thought, as he opened the door and headed over to the Mess Tent to grab some (preferably non-poisoned) "food."

Trapper sat at the end of the trestle table, playing around with the liver and onions on his tray that he had little intention of eating. He wore an expression many had described as "the most miserable known to man."

"Even the nurses aren't as interesting," thought Trapper. "Without Hawkeye, I mean… there's no fun in it. It was never just Hawkeye, or just me, it was always me and Hawkeye. Now it's just me with no Hawkeye and no Frank to annoy…"

Trapper put his head in his hands. He sniffled softly. "Damn it, Trapper, you're supposed to be strong, now stop it," he told himself. "Crying will get you nowhere." He hoped with all his might that Hawkeye would recover… if he didn't it was going to be a hell of a long war…

"Are you all right, Captain McIntyre?"

There was only one woman in the camp who even bothered calling him Captain. Major Margaret Houlihan.

Margaret sat down with her tray in her hands. She, like nearly everyone else, had never seen Trapper so morose and downhearted.

He replied, "Yeah, I'm fine," without looking up from his tray of uneaten liver and onions.

Margaret deduced that Trapper was so depressed about the state of his best friend he hadn't even bothered to lie about it. "No, really, McIntyre, are you all right?"

Trapper looked up. "You're the nurse, Major; you should be able to tell." He spoke in a brusque, offhand manner more typical of Hawkeye, but in a sullen fashion rarely seen from either. "Do I look all right to you?"

"No, you don't, but I didn't mean to upset you." Margaret spoke in the calming, soothing tone of voice she used with agitated patients. In a rare display of affection from the Major, she laid a hand over his shoulders.

Trapper had by now worked himself into such a state he almost didn't notice Margaret's gesture, only realising when she pulled him closer. He subconsciously moved towards a source of warmth and comfort as he started to cry.

Margaret sat at the end of that trestle table comforting Trapper, who was now sobbing openly. He'd always been the one she went to when she needed comfort most (excluding Frank, who was never too crash-hot at it anyway, she realised) and she felt it was time to return the favour. There had always been something tucked away in the depths of her heart for Trapper, but she had never allowed herself to bring it to the surface. This time, however, instinct took over. Her instincts told her Trapper needed support and she was willing to give it.

"_Attention all surgical personnel. Report to operating room. Incoming casualties arriving by chopper, ambulance, and jeep. It's gonna be a big one, folks_."

"Shit," Trapper muttered, between tears. How the hell was he supposed to keep operating in a state like this? Plus a new doctor he hadn't even met and a big load…

When the incoming wounded announcement rang out across the camp, Captain James McCulloch had only just arrived. Like most new arrivals, he looked very neat and tidy, with a wish to make a good impression. However, standing in the middle of the compound with his bags by his side wasn't going to achieve that too quickly.

"Geez, I hope I'm all right… this MASH has the best efficiency rate this side of the 38th parallel, and I'm replacing their best surgeon…" His mates in Tokyo had congratulated him on getting such a great posting: Hawkeye's surgical prowess was known all over Korea. James was only sorry he wouldn't be able to see him in action.

"Captain McCulloch?"

James shook his head. Radar had run across to meet him, he alone remembering the new doctor's arrival.

"Er, yes, that's me, sir." He saluted out of habit.

"I'm Corporal O'Reilly… you're needed in surgery, sir." Radar picked up his bags and ran to the VIP tent.

James stood, bewildered…

"Oh, right, surgery. Come on James, you fool, make a good impression!" he told himself as he approached the nearest ambulance.

Thankfully, that O.R. session passed without incident, though it dragged on for seven hours. James worked as best he could, given he wasn't used to the fast pace, earning praise from Houlihan. She had assigned herself to James in order to keep an eye on him and assess his abilities. In the end, she was pleasantly surprised, Not a patch on Hawkeye, of course, but good enough to have earned his stripes.

Trapper returned to the Swamp to find James sitting on Frank's bunk. Evidently Radar had moved his things over.

"Aha," Trapper exclaimed, by way of greeting. "I take it you're Captain McCulloch?"

"Call me James," he replied, standing up to shake Trapper's hand. "Captain McIntyre, I presume?"

"Call me Trapper." He shook James' hand warmly, instantly taking a liking to this new doctor. James was well-built, about 5' 8" with straight brown hair and cat-green eyes that were lit up like a Christmas tree. He'll be an instant hit with the nurses, Trapper mused…

"Can I offer you some lighter fluid?" he asked, motioning to the Still.

"Why not?" replied James. Trapper went and poured two glasses. James, being used to this sort of thing, barely grimaced at the taste.

"Well, James, I'm sorry that was your introduction to the 4077th," remarked Trapper, as the two sat down on their bunks. Noting his confused look, he added, "The surgery."

"Ah, I see. Well, I tried, and the nurse aiding me seemed satisfied…"

"Which nurse was it?" asked Trapper, making conversation.

"Erm… I think it was a Nurse Houlihan…"

Trapper spluttered. Houlihan? Praise? What the? "Are you sure it was Major Houlihan?"

"Yeah, she introduced herself… Major, eh?... Well, she seemed to like my work…"

"Major Houlihan giving praise is as rare as progress in peace talks! What did you do?" asked Trapper, quite impressed.

James seemed at a loss. "My job. That's all!"

"Well, you've seem to be going all right! I bet you'll fit right in," said Trapper, who once again noticed James' eyes light up.

_Rat-tat-tat._ A knock at the door.

"Come in," called James. It was Radar.

"Captain McIntyre, er, Colonel Blake wants to see you now, sir."

"All right Radar. James, I'll see you around, ok?"

"See you!" James was still beaming when Trapper closed the door.

Trapper and Radar opened the door to Henry's office. Henry himself was sitting in his chair with his head in his hands, a half-empty bottle of scotch next to him. Trapper was sure that bottle had been full on his last visit.

"Sir?"

Henry looked up, eyes bloodshot and dried tears down his cheeks.

"We got the new doctor?" he whispered. When Trapper nodded, Henry's head slid out of his hands and onto the desk. "We have three working doctors… three… we're saved!"

Trapper approached the desk. "Henry? You all right there?"

Henry looked up. "Apart from two of my doctors being sick with no known reason, lots of wounded and the fact this scotch tastes worse than your lighter fluid and doesn't get me drunk… yeah, I'm just dandy."

"What can I do for you, Henry?"

Henry snapped awake. "Do for me? Did I call for you?" He shook his head. "Must have done. Eh, if you can find any effective alcohol, let me know. And NOT that lighter fluid you and Haw… Hawk… Pierce drink so much."

"Okay, Henry. My eyes are peeled." Trapper and Radar both took that opportunity to quietly back out of the door.

"Will Colonel Blake be all right, sir?" asked Radar as they walked through the compound, going nowhere in particular.

"Let's hope so… the last thing we need is Henry cracking, we have enough crackpot surgeons here already…"

_Mwahahahaha!_

The two jumped at this sudden laugh. Many of the personnel in the compound at the time also jumped and looked toward Post-Op.

Trapper glanced at Radar. "I better see what the hell that was," he shouted as he burst through the Post-Op door.

All the patients were fixated on the happenings at the far end of the ward. Frank, who hadn't moved a muscle – or woken up for that matter – since Trapper saw him last, laid in the shadows. Standing above him, Hawkeye bared his teeth in a wolf-like fashion. He brought down his arm, letting a brilliant glimmer of light strike the scalpel in his hand…

Scalpel in his hand!

Hee hee hee! I worked overtime to get this finished… yes cliffhanger isn't brilliant, but I hope you enjoyed it! Chapter 8 coming soon… Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. And some of you don't have stories for me to review! Dammit! (Yes, I know some do, and I SHALL review. Scouts' honour. :P)


	8. Chapter 8

_Hello again! Welcome to the big, bad world of Chapter 8! Firstly, the ubiquitous (but entirely necessary) thanking of reviewers. A large hello also to Sporky, whose full name would take up about three lines. :D Post reviews, Sporky! Post! ahem_

Chapter 8. Nothing more, nothing less. 

_Note: Anyhow…there might be a bit of bad language in this chapter (Sporky, please don't kill me). If not, consider yourselves conned._

Scalpel…what the hell's he doing with a scalpel!

Trapper raced down the end of the ward and, without regard for the other patients or his own well-being, crash-tackled Hawkeye to the ground.

"Radar… sedatives… NOW!" Radar hurried off, mumbling a "yes, sir" as he left. Trapper pinned Hawkeye to the floor of the Post-Op Ward, wrenching the scalpel out of Hawkeye's grasp with one hand and covering his mouth with the other.

"Hawkeye! Shush! Quieten down!"

Trapper held his hand firmly over Hawkeye's mouth until the sick doctor relented and gave up struggling. His eyes remained narrowed with anger… but at what?

He removed his hand. Hawkeye looked up into Trapper's soft brown eyes. His own widened as he slowly realised he was no longer standing over Frank with a scalpel in his hand.

"Trap…Trapper?"

Called the man, "Where the hell is-"

"I brought those sedatives, sir." Radar had, as usual, appeared out of nowhere.

"Brilliant," muttered Trapper under his breath. Hawkeye had enough sense left in him to recognise a needle filled with sedatives; at the sight, he attempted to let out a scream before Trapper once again clamped his mouth shut. Trapper gently closed his eyes as he slid the needle into Hawkeye's arm. He went limp in an instant. Trapper then laid Hawkeye down next to Frank, as he always had. Those were damn powerful sedatives, Trapper told himself, so he isn't likely to wake again soon. Even if he does, he'll only attack Frank, who's had it coming a long time.

"Do you need anything else, Trapper?"

"What? Oh, shit," he muttered. He'd quite forgotten Radar was there.

"I need a miracle, Radar, but I don't suppose you could get me one of those."

"Erm… sorry, no can do. If there's anything else let me know."

"Will do, Radar."

Radar trotted out the door, doubtless having more paperwork to bury himself in. As Trapper walked out the Post-Op door, he felt his eyes prick with tears.

"Fucking hell, Trapper, you are a SURGEON. You are a DOCTOR. Doctors don't cry. Doctors don't mellow in their self-pity. You will pull though this, and so will Hawkeye," he muttered sternly to himself. Without stopping to look at anyone, he burst through the door of the Swamp and all but fell on his bed, his eyes closed. James looked up, alarmed.

"Hey, Trapper, are you okay?" he asked, concerned.

Trapper turned to face James, sporting the same bloodshot eyes as Henry. He tried to sputter something coherent, but failed.

"Hey, uh… do you know who that scream was? It was pretty loud…"

James knew even as he asked the question that he'd said something wrong. Trapper's face crumpled, and he buried his face in his sleeve.

"Trapper…"

Trapper mumbled something incoherent into his shirt. James leant over towards him.

"Trapper, what's wrong?"

Trapper lifted his head, eyes filled with tears. "Hawkeye," he managed to croak out before wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"Shit," thought James. "I barely know anything about Hawkeye's illness, other than that he's crook and lying in Post-Op and that I'm replacing him."

He asked, in a voice little more than a whisper, "What happened to him?"

"I don't know! That's the problem! He only fell sick two days ago! I know Frank's got gastro, though how he got it remains to be seen. But Hawkeye I don't know about! One day he's chirpy, fantastic, as normal, the next he's talking to latrine walls at three in the morning!" Trapper burst out. He realised what he'd said and started to sob, again, into his sleeve.

James got up and sat on the end of Trapper's cot. "Maybe I can help you find out."

Trapper slowly sat up, taking in what James had said. "Really!" asked he, in an excited tone that belied his current mental state. "That's the best thing I've heard all day. You have no idea how wonderful that makes me feel!"

"Really. I want to help," James replied casually, taking a good look at Trapper in the process. His cheeks were caked with dried tears; he looked as if he'd aged three years in a day. "This guy's a mess," thought James. "Trapper's gonna need all the help he can get."

"I suppose you want to know what happened," Trapper said, his eyes clouding over at the thought.

"That would greatly aid our investigations," countered James, with a hint of a smile.

In any other situation, Trapper would most likely have grinned. This time, eyes still clouded, he began his story.

Trapper told James everything he knew. Everything from that morning in the Mess Tent mocking the food to Hawkeye's scalpel-wielding antics barely fifteen minutes before. No detail was left out; Trapper was careful to include everything in order for James to understand.

"Wow," remarked James after the elder doctor had finished his story. There wasn't much else he could say. Trapper's story was enough to amaze even the most dull-minded of listeners.

"That's right. No wonder this camp is falling to bits." replied Trapper. "Are you sure you can help?"

"I'm sure. I don't know if we'll find out for certain, but I know I can help."

This time, Trapper grinned. Thankfully, he thought, James has a sense of humour, which we can all do with.

They sat in silence for a few moments, still grinning, when a thought struck Trapper.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, startling James.

"What is it, Trapper?"

"I've just remembered something," Trapper replied urgently. "Dr. Pierce needs to be told."

"Hawkeye's father, I assume?"

"The one and only." Trapper's face was grim. "I promised Hawkeye that if anything ever happened…" That was as far as he got before once again his sleeve became a handkerchief. Thanks again for your offer, James."

"No worries, Trapper." James gave a little wave as Trapper stood up and went out the door.

Trapper didn't even bother knocking on Henry's door before barging in. To his surprise, the scotch bottle was gone (most likely finished off, he thought) and a cup of ersatz coffee replaced it. He was staring at some papers on his desk and seemed to have been about to call for Radar.

"Oh. McIntyre, what do you want?" he asked, with the slightest slur to his words.

Said Trapper, in a hurry, "Someone needs to call Dr. Pierce."

Henry sat up in his chair in an instant; this was evidently something he hadn't thought of. "Ooh, yes, that would make sense… Trapper, get Ra-"

"You called for me, sir?"

"No, I didn't, but Trapper was about to. Listen, Radar, we need to patch a call though to Hawkeye's dad."

Radar's eyes widened; he hadn't thought of this either, but immediately mumbled "yes, sir" and rushed back into his office.

He picked up the phone. "HQ Seoul."

"Hey Sparky, it's Radar."

"Radar! How are you?"

"Doing lots of work at the moment, but I'll be okay. Now, I need to put a call through to a, uh, Dr. Daniel Pierce, of Crabapple Cove, Maine."

"Can do, buddy. Just connecting."

Radar waited as Sparky put him through. After ten minutes he heard, "Dr. Pierce on the line."

"Thanks, Sparky." He put the phone down. From Henry's office, Radar could be heard to shout, "Dr. Pierce on the line, sir!"

"All right, who's going to talk to Dr. Pierce?" asked Trapper.

The twosome looked at each other. Henry's shoulders slumped. "I suppose it's my job, since I'm his CO, but hang on Trapper," he called as Trapper edged away from the desk. "Dr. Pierce may want to talk to you and I'd like you at hand."

"Plus to tell you what to say to Dr. Pierce." Trapper added.

"That too," admitted Henry sheepishly.

Trapper's stomach was filled with butterflies, knowing that 6,000 miles away a phone would be ringing, bringing with it some very bad news.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

In a small stone house in Crabapple Cove, Maine, Daniel Pierce sat on the sofa. Silence permeated the house, as per usual, as he sat reading. He was reading one of Hawkeye's letters, the happy ones that brightened his day immeasurably. He always looked forward to his son's letters and treated them like gold, recounting the stories therein to anyone who would listen. Daniel almost felt as if he knew the 4077th already, with Hawkeye's tales of mischief, monotony and -

_Rrrrring._

Daniel jumped. "Yikes, who could that be?" he thought, as he got up to answer the phone.

"Hello, Daniel Pierce speaking."

"Hello, this is Seoul HQ, you have an incoming call from the 4077th MASH."

"All right then," replied Daniel, quite puzzled. The only reason he could think of for the 4077th to be ringing him was if something terrible had happened… He tried to put that out of his mind.

"Hello, this is Lt. Col. Henry Blake, commanding officer of the MASH 4077th," began Henry, sounding remarkably professional for a decidedly non-professional man. Trapper suspected Radar had drilled this into his head a thousand times.

"Hello, Col. Blake, what can I do for you today?"

"Dr. Pierce, I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Daniel paused, anxious. "What news?" he replied, his voice lowered.

Henry lowered the phone. "What do I say?" he whispered urgently.

"Oh for Pete's sake, Henry, I'll do it," said Trapper as he picked up the phone.

"Sorry about that, Dr. Pierce, this is Captain John McIntyre. Col. Blake is, er, indisposed at the moment." He was secretly proud he'd used a word like 'indisposed.'

"As in Trapper McIntyre?"

"The very same."

"Listen, Col. Blake mentioned something about bad news… what did he mean?"

Trapper paused. He wasn't sure how quite to word it, but it needed to be said.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Pierce, Hawkeye has come down with an illness. We aren't quite sure what it is yet, or how he got it. He's fainted twice and has also been hallucinating quite severely."

A pause.

"Did you say, 'We aren't quite sure what it is'?"

Trapper replied, "Yes, I did. We – and by that I mean myself and Captain McCulloch, your son's replacement – haven't got any idea as to how he fell sick, or indeed what he is sick with."

"What are his symptoms?" Daniel was trying his best not to be nosy, merely helpful.

"Fainting, hallucinations, fever, that sort of thing. Do you have any idea?"

"Sad to say I don't. I wish you luck in diagnosis."

"Thankyou, Dr. Pierce, we're going to need it… If anything happens, I will be sure to let you know."

"Thankyou, Captain. I appreciate your call." The phone went dead.

Daniel set the phone down. He knew he needed a few moments for it all to sink in… his son with a mystery hallucinogenic ailment no one knew the identity of… He shook his head; he had the utmost faith in these doctors, they were bound to find the cause soon…

Trapper set the phone down. That hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought; on the contrary, Daniel Pierce had seemed quite calm and composed on being told his son had an illness the best MASH in South Korea couldn't identify.

"How did that go?" asked Henry, who had turned slightly red.

"Quite well, considering," Trapper replied. "Hopefully we won't have to ring with any more bad news for him."

"Amen to that," Henry agreed. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"I can't stop you," quipped Trapper. "All right, yeah, I'll take one."

Henry went to the cupboard, took out a bottle of scotch (a new one, Trapper noticed, confirming his earlier suspicion that Henry had finished off an entire bottle by himself) and poured two glasses.

"To our doctors getting well," declared Henry, as he raised his glass.

"To Hawkeye getting well," replied Trapper. After Henry glared at him, Trapper muttered, "And Frank too, I suppose."

The two clinked glasses. Trapper was just about to take a sip when –

"_Attention all personnel. Incoming casualties. Report immediately to admitting ward and operating room on the double!"_

"Dammit," Trapper and Henry curiously muttered at the same time as both leapt out of their chairs and rushed outside to greet the new arrivals.

At full strength, this load of casualties would only have taken five hours at most. With just three surgeons, and James inexperienced at that, the O.R. session seemed to all to drag on endlessly. When at last Klinger shouted "No more casualties, sirs!" doctors and nurses alike breathed a huge collective sigh of relief.

"Thank God that's over," declared Henry as the three surgeons scrubbed down.

"Amen," replied James. Trapper remained conspicuously silent, but the other two knew better than to pressure him into making conversation. When Henry left to "re-acquaint myself with a good friend," as he put it, Trapper and James exchanged knowing looks and set off for the Swamp. Neither knew what the time was; the fact it was dark and had been for some hours now meant it was sleep-hours to these two.

"We'll start investigating tomorrow, okay?" asked Trapper.

"Can do," replied James, eager as always.

"Brilliant. I've already got a few hunches," he said as they stumbled into the Swamp. Trapper and James bade each other good night (or "good morning" as James worded it, given the hour of night) and both collapsed, exhausted on their beds. James fell asleep almost instantly.

"Oooh, how I envy you," Trapper muttered, surveying James' sleeping form. "If I got to sleep as quickly as you I'd be a much, much happier man." Realising that his muttering was, in fact, preventing him drifting off, he quickly stopped and made himself comfortable.

Late that night, or early that morning, Trapper had a dream…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

**To be continued…**

_:P Details in the Ethereal Chapter 9! Have to put a cliffy in there, keep you reading! Anyhow, I hope you liked it! Please review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. :D If any of you have stories that need reviews, post their names along with your comments. Thanks!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Greetings, brethren. Welcome to Chapter 9. Things take a turn for the surreal in this chapter; I thought I'd try something a little different. Please tell me what you thought._

_Note: If I get details wrong or messed-up, medical, Greek mythological or otherwise, don't shoot me. Also the usual bad words warning._

The Ethereal Chapter 9 

Late that night, or early that morning, Trapper had a dream.

His dreams carried him back to his schooldays, listening to tales of the Greek gods. He remembered thinking those damn gods could do anything; cast lightning and thunder on the world, withhold the sun and make the crops fail, or go on epic journeys, filled with adventure and heroism.

The book lay open in little John's hands. Tales of Greek Mythology. Almost by themselves, the pages flipped to a particular spot in the book. The Tale of Prometheus. John had always admired Prometheus, how he rode to Mount Olympus and stole fire for humans to use, though he wondered how he had managed to steal the fire without burning his hands.

John began to read, immersed as always…

The scene changed…

He felt different; John looked down at himself and saw he was bigger, stronger, now a man, known to his friends and colleagues as Trapper John. The sun was new, the sky a deep pink, with wisps of blue from the night left behind. Ahead of him, he set eyes on the boulder. It wasn't merely a boulder, it was the boulder and he had no idea why, except… except that it was supposed to be at the top of the mountain. Again, he didn't know why; he merely felt it was so. Feeling more confused than ever, Trapper began to push.

The day grew old, the sun rose and fell. When once again the sky blushed and ribbons of blue floated above, the boulder was near the summit of the mountain. Again, not a mountain, the mountain; something told him he should recognise this place. Trapper slumped against the boulder. He felt a sense of achievement; he'd pushed that damned boulder up the mountain. His conscience was satisfied…

Hang on! The boulder's at the bottom! I thought the boulder was at the top!

Trapper looked around. Sadly for him, the boulder was indeed still at the bottom, yet that something told him it needed to be at the top; how it got to the bottom again remained a mystery to him. Once again, Trapper began to push.

Yet again, the day aged before his eyes as that damned boulder was once again pushed up the mountain. It took him longer this time; by the time he was finished the heavens were awash with a deeper shade of red, scattered between widened navy ribbons of night. Relief overcame him; at last, the job was done. Trapper's eyes wandered among his surroundings; the mountain range far away, the dusty plains before him, the scattered greenery, with a large clump in a clearing. He focussed on the large clump. It was different to the surrounding vegetation, and one silvery square bush-like thing had a red cross on the top.

Trapper's eyes widened; he definitely recognised this place…

The scene changed…

"Clamp."

Trapper found himself in O.R. Heaven knew how long he'd been there. He looked down on his patient; thankfully, it was nothing too serious, just the same-old fragments of shrapnel.

"Suction, I can't see a damn thing."

After fifteen minutes of work, he noticed the O.R. was conspicuously silent. From what he remembered, it was usually filled with chatter and the occasional chastisement. Looking up, he saw Hawkeye and Frank were missing; it was only he, Henry and a new doctor he vaguely recognised as Captain James McCulloch. He knew why Hawkeye and Frank weren't there – it was because they were sick, but with what? Trapper tried to concentrate on his work while all the while racking his brain. What the hell happened to them! He should know what was wrong!

The casualties seemed to be never-ending. After what felt like days of work, Trapper was still operating. He kept his ears open for the call of "No more casualties, sir!" - it never eventuated. He couldn't remember having as long a session as this. Through the window, he saw out of the corner of his eye the rays of day and garlands of night in a never-ending cycle.

"_Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Choppers and ambulances loaded."_

Hang on… there were already incoming wounded… what the?

"Trapper, get up, we've got more wounded!" Trapper shook his head… that was definitely not the PA's voice…

"Trapper! Wounded! Up! Now!"

Trapper opened his eyes. Once again, sunlight shafted in through the windows… of the Swamp. He was awake, thank God… His body gave an involuntary shudder.

"Hey, Trapper… up or not?"

"Yeah, I'm getting up, James… that was a shit-scary dream…"

"You had a dream? Ooh, do tell."

Trapper hauled himself out of bed. "I might leave it for now, if that's all right."

"Hey, that's fine. Let's greet the new arrivals, shall we?"

Trapper didn't bother replying as the two trudged outside.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Thankfully for everyone, the wounded weren't all that, er, wounded, and operating finished up quickly.

"So, Trapper," asked James, as the two took the scenic route to the Mess Tent, "what's the food like here?"

Again, James recognised he'd asked a wrong question, as Trapper froze in his tracks. "The food… I swear that's what it is…of course!" He ran into the tent, leaving a befuddled James standing in the middle of the compound.

_Bang!_ The door to the Mess Tent was flung open. Heads simultaneously turned as Trapper noisily joined the end of the line. Looking up, he saw that once again Igor was serving up his pitiful excuse for food. He snorted; everyone had given up on anything better in terms of army fare long ago.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Trapper, if there was ever one there," he sternly told himself. "The last thing you want is for everyone to catch onto what you're doing."

When it was his turn at the counter, he declared, a little too loudly, "I'll take a heap of the potatoes, thanks Igor."

A collective gasp issued from those seated around the tent. Only the foolhardy had dared touch the potatoes since Frank and Hawkeye's illness became known around the camp. Now Trapper, the camp's third-in-line-chief surgeon and Hawkeye's best mate, was willingly eating them? Even Igor's jaw had dropped.

"I hope you don't mind if I eat privately, do you all?" He grinned, noting the shocked looks on everyone's faces. "Don't worry, I'm not committing suicide, you can all relax." Trapper chuckled to himself as he stole away with his tray of "mashed potatoes" to the Swamp. Once inside, he set the tray down on his cot and studied it closely.

James walked in. "Erm, Trapper, may I ask what the hell are you doing?"

"I can't stop you, mate."

James rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

Trapper returned to studying the potatoes. "I'm thinking of collecting samples of this and putting them in the incubator, to see if there's anything in them." He stopped, remembering fondly his and Hawkeye's efforts to get the incubator in the first place.

"Apart from potato?"

"Well, to be quite honest I'd be surprised if we found any of that, but you know what I mean." Trapper couldn't help grinning.

"Er… call me stupid, but I don't suppose I do. What exactly are you looking for?"

Trapper looked at him, his grin faded in an instant, eyes ice-cold. Though James, at first glance, mightn't be the sharpest tool in the shed, Trapper knew he'd be invaluable in the days to come.

"What do you think I'm looking for, discharge papers?" He paused. A thought struck him, then disappeared almost instantly; how brilliant would it be if he actually did find discharge papers…

"No, of course not! I'm only trying to help! Just like I said I would!" James responded angrily. Trapper snapped out of his semi-daydream and once again furiously inspected the lump of potatoes on his tray.

"Poisons, James. I never imagined doing this and I hope I never have to do it again. Someone's messed with these, I'm quite sure… and I won't rest until I find who it is."

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Henry Blake stood at his cupboard, lamenting.

"Dammit, my scotch levels are running low… I think I've drunk more of that scotch in the past five days than I have all month!" he cried. "I was sure there were four bottles a week ago, and now there's only two and a half…eh, must have drunk it at one point or another." He glanced at the half-empty bottle on his desk, and at the completely empty bottle next to it. "I must have been really out of it to not notice drinking an entire bottle… damn, that was good stuff too…"  
Nevertheless, he had more important matters to contend with, such as his surgeons' illnesses and all this damned paperwork he didn't have a hope of understanding. But first, he needed a chat with someone.

"Major Freedman's on the line, sir."

Radar, with his infallible way of appearing before he was called for, seemed to have anticipated Henry exactly.

"Dammit, Radar, you know me too well… thanks."

"No problem, sir."

Henry picked up the phone, slightly apprehensive.

"Hello?"

"Hello Col. Blake, it's Sidney Freedman here."

"Sidney! How are you?" Henry replied with enthusiasm belying his current sorrowful state.

"Not too bad, not too bad. What can I do for you?"

Henry paused. He'd already had to tell Daniel Pierce about Hawkeye and had failed on that occasion. Trapper wasn't here to save him now…

"Sidney, Frank has severe gastroenteritis and, er, Hawkeye has… well, um, we don't know what Hawkeye's got, but he's been fainting and hallucinating all over the place. We've only got three surgeons, meaning… er, myself, Tra-McIntyre and a new guy by the name of Captain McCulloch. Morale at this place has uh, gone down the latrine." Henry went on to describe, briefly, what had happened as far as he knew.

The only word that immediately came to Sidney's lips was "Shit!"

"Shit is what we're in, Major, and I don't mean the literal kind. McIntyre and McCulloch can't have gotten much sleep between them… and I'm personally worried about McIntyre and what this is doing to him."

"Henry, you don't even need to ask. I'm on my way."

"Sidney, thankyou so much, you're a lifesaver. Should I let them know you're coming?"

"I wouldn't, that'll give them time to come up with stories. Let my visit be a surprise. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks a bunch, Sidney."

"Anytime, Henry." The phone went dead.

Sidney set the phone down. Though they'd spoken for barely ten minutes, he already had a picture forming in his mind of what sort of shape the 4077th would be in. Shaking his head, he gathered his things together. They'd need him all right.

Henry set the phone down. Thank God for Sidney Freedman, he thought, because we'd all be stuffed otherwise. By his calculations, Sidney should arrive at the 4077th late that night (it was roughly 1pm by his reckoning); he'd be an early-morning present for the people under his command.

Henry sighed. Why the hell they gave him a command job, he'd never know…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

"You want to put what in the incubator?"

"Please, Ginger… it'll help James and Radar and I determine if the potatoes were messed with."

"You three turned detectives now? Well, if you think it will help…"

Shaking her head, Ginger reluctantly placed the two plates of potato into the incubator. Trapper's theory was that if there was something in them (apart from potato and the obligatory pseudo-potato crap) they'd grow on the potato. He wasn't sure what that something could be, but knowing that army potatoes didn't bear that much of a resemblance to proper potatoes, anything that turned up could reasonably be counted as suspicious.

"There you go, it's in. You'll have to wait about six hours or thereabouts, so don't hang around," warned Ginger.

"Oh, don't worry about that, we won't be waiting around," assured James. The three rushed outside, in a manner reminiscent of cheeky schoolboys. Ginger simply shook her head before returning to her work.

"All right, now what?" asked James, in his most excited state since arriving at the 4077th the previous day.

"Now, we need to talk to the following people," declared Trapper, tapping his finger on a list in his hands. Radar had drawn up the list, but Trapper had, er, "edited" it a bit. The list read as follows:

Hawkeye (when he's not mental)

Frank (if he can talk and not vomit)

Igor (very shifty, rubbish cook)

Henry (free scotch)

Hot Lips (see if she knows anything)

"Let's start with Igor, just because we can," proclaimed James. The other two nodded their heads, not having anything against this move, and headed to the Mess Tent.

Igor Straminsky saw the threesome coming. From their excited talking and jabbing their fingers on a list it was made clear that they were on a mission, and that his name was on that list. He knew, like everyone else, about the potatoes in the incubator (news spread like the 'flu in that place). He knew that he wasn't exactly in everyone's good books at that moment, what with being the rubbishy camp cook and one of the prime suspects. He also knew, unlike everyone else, a little secret about these potatoes. If Trapper, Radar and James wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, the incubator would only go so far…

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

_Mwahahaha! I don't know about you, but I do like that cliffy… he's right you know! Incubators only go so far… but that's all I'm telling you, so you'll just have to wait and see! Please, please review! Don't forget, you gotta write 'em to get 'em. I plan on practising what I preach… and reviewing your stories! Post their names along with your comments if you'd like reviews courtesy of yours truly!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Warnings: the usual bad language (a necessary evil, Sporky) and possibly mush. If not, consider yourselves conned. I apologise for the lengthy delay; school went back and they expected me to do assignments and pay attention._

Chapter 10 

Unfortunately for Igor, the trio's entrance left him little time for scattered thoughts. He snapped to attention, purely out of habit than anything else.

"Greetings, Igor!" called out James, in a strangely jubilant fashion.

"Erm… greetings, sirs," Igor replied, unsure how to respond.

"We'd merely like the pleasure of chatting to you for a little while, Igor. Is that all right with you?" asked Trapper.

Igor would have given anything to yell out, "No, it's not all right with me, now get out of the tent!" but held his tongue. He was, after all, only a Private. Instead, he settled for a fake smile and the words, "Yeah, sure, no worries, sirs."

The trio made their way around the servery to the back of the tent. Radar pulled a notebook seemingly out of thin air, along with a pencil.

"So," began Trapper. "What do you remember about the morning Frank was serving up food?" James seemed itching to butt in, but a glare from Trapper put paid to that.

"I remember he was incredibly enthusiastic," mumbled Igor. He was at pains not to give too much away. "He kept talking about serving the food as if he was receiving a visit from General MacArthur himself."

"Did you think the food was good?" asked James.

"I'm the one that cooks it! Do you think I'd be insulting my own handiwork? I'm less of a fool than you take me for." Igor stood up a little straighter, indignant.

The three glanced at each other. Igor was being a little trickier than first thought.

Trapper suddenly stood up straight. James and Radar, purely out of habit, followed suit. Trapper seemed suddenly struck by an idea. Radar dimly registered the unlikelihood of such an event, but was too awestruck to think much further.

Trapper shuffled slowly up to Igor, whose eyes had widened slightly.

"Igor?"

"Uhh… yes, s-sir?"

"Are you hiding something?"

Igor froze. How the hell did they…

"No! Why wo-would you, er, th-th-think that?"

"We have our suspicions," called James, and Trapper nodded in agreement.

"No, of course not! I am not hiding anything! How dare you accuse me of being shifty! I am not…" Igor trailed off when he realised he was being greeted by the same icy stare Trapper had inflicted on James earlier.

"I don't know what you're hiding, but one day you'll pay for it," declared Trapper in a low voice, eyes glistening. "One day I'll find out and you'll be sorry you ever became an army cook!" He slammed his fist on the servery and stomped out the door.

"Trapper! Stop!" James followed him; Radar haplessly followed James. As the three left, Igor gazed at the ground, shaking his head.

"Damn, I already regret it."

"Well, that got us next to nowhere," said James, as he and Trapper strolled through the compound. Radar had apparently run back to his office, but neither could be sure.

"I don't know about that, James," countered Trapper. "I'm sure he IS being shifty, even though he repeatedly tells us otherwise."

"You want to keep going with the… er… list?" James had realised halfway through that sentence that Radar was still in possession of said list, and was no longer in their company. He shook his head. "Never mind me."

"Will do. In any case, I think I've got post-op duty – damn! – so I am afraid we shall meet again this evening." Trapper looked sadly toward the rickety tin shed grandly referred to as "the Post-Op Ward."

"All right then. See you around," James called as he walked towards the Swamp.

"See you," Trapper called half-heartedly. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they carried him towards the tin shed.

"There better not be more trouble from Hawkeye and Frank tonight, or I'm gonna scream…"

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

"_Attention. Could Captain James McCulloch make his way to Colonel Blake's office. You have a visitor."_

"A visitor?" James muttered. "What the…?" He didn't have the foggiest idea who'd be going around visiting _him_. After all, he'd arrived only days ago. "I don't think I've screwed up enough to get the MPs called in already… oh well, wait and see, won't we?" He mumbled incoherently to himself as his feet led him to Henry's office.

James entered to find Henry at his desk and a strange man before him. He saluted out of habit, though Trapper had told him somewhere along the line that he didn't need to.

"James, this is Major Sidney Freedman. Sidney, this is Captain James McCulloch." The two shook hands warmly. Sidney came across to James as a likable person, though he still wasn't sure what he was there for.

"James, Sidney is an Army Psychiatrist. I invited him over here to, er, assess us all, since we're all, uh, you know, under a bit of strain, what with Hawkeye and Frank… anyhow, you're first. Sidney, where would suit you?" said Henry.

"Hmm… would your office be okay to use, Henry?"

"Oh, uh, sure Sidney, that's fine. I'll, er, go and, uh, sign some papers or something." Henry smiled and backed out of his office.

Sidney plopped himself down in Henry's seat and motioned for James to sit down also. "Good afternoon, James. I am Major Sidney Freedman, and as Henry mentioned, I am in fact an Army Psychiatrist. Now, how are you today?"

"Erm, I'm all right thanks, yourself?"

"Quite fine, thank you. Now, you and I need a small chat, if that's all right with you," said Sidney.

"Oh yes, that's fine by me."

Sidney rearranged his face into a thinking expression. "I understand you arrived at the 4077th a few days ago?"

"That's correct, sir."

Sidney laughed. "Please, drop the sir. I'm just plain old Sidney. So, how are you finding life at the 4077th?"

James replied, "Well, it's kinda turbulent because two of the doctors are sick and I'm supposed to replace both of them. I mean, my mates back in Tokyo kept talking about how utterly fantastic Hawkeye Pierce was as a surgeon, everyone knows him all over Korea. Apparently last time he was sick they had to get _two_ doctors in to replace him. Now I'm replacing him and Frank Burns, and all I know about him is that he's a rubbish surgeon. Apart from that, and not getting much sleep because something always goes wrong, and Trapper being a basket case, yeah, I'm fine."

Sidney paused in thought. "That doesn't exactly match my definition of 'fine,' but we'll get to that. What exactly has been going wrong?"

James proceeded to explain the events of the past week, while Sidney listened intently. He'd heard the basics from Henry, but James' retelling helped Sidney to fully understand.

"Hmmm," said Sidney at the end of it all. He definitely had a lot of work to do… "James, do you ever feel as if you're left out? Like everyone else understands something that you don't?"

"I don't think that anyone else understands any more than I do."

"You mean Frank and Hawkeye?"

"Yeah. That's it." James suddenly took a powerful interest in his shoelaces and didn't look Sidney in the eye.

"Have you tried to help?"

"Trapper, Radar and I talked to Igor today, but he was being shifty and not saying anything… don't tell Trap I said this, but I reckon Igor's involved."

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Trapper wandered into the Post-Op Ward. He'd found he wasn't technically on duty, but finding himself with little else to do had led him to patrol the Wards like the MPs patrolled the POW camps. His eye cast itself over the two rows of beds, all full of patients. He uncharacteristically waved at many of the patients; a few waved back or smiled in appreciation of his gesture. Like everyone else at the 4077th, the patients had by one way or another learned of the recent events plaguing the camp. They appreciated his friendliness, though some weren't sure exactly how he was able to keep up so happy a façade; by their reasoning he should have cracked by now.

The clock struck seven. Ginger approached him and said, "Doctor, Hawkeye needs to be sedated now, sir." Though she knew full well he wasn't on duty, sedating Hawkeye was an operation Trapper would entrust to no one else. He appreciated her reminder.

Trapper walked to Hawkeye's cot. He didn't look very good; Hawkeye that was. "How ya going today, Hawk?"

Hawkeye grimaced. "How the hell do you think?" His voice was weak; he didn't have a lot of energy.

"I take it lousy."

"Right, first time. You're getting better." Hawkeye sighed deeply. He hoped that Trapper would find out what was wrong soon… being sick really annoyed him more than he cared to let on. "I'm actually really tired today, which makes no sense since I've done nothing all day but lie on this cot. Oh well, maybe that means I'll get a good night's sleep."

"Why don't you have a nap now? It'll really help." Trapper hoped that Hawkeye would take him up on his suggestion. He did; Hawkeye rolled over and closed his eyes. "Good idea, Trapper," he mumbled, slurring his words.

Trapper waited until Hawkeye looked faintly asleep before he reached for the needle. He injected it as quietly as he could into Hawkeye's arm. Trapper surveyed him from above. Hawkeye was pale, too pale, and shivering.

"Nurse, keep an eye on Hawkeye. His condition may be destabilising," he called. The obligatory "yes, Doctor" called back.

"This can't go on," he muttered. He pulled a blanket over Hawkeye and walked away, trying to disallow the stark, painful sight of Hawkeye in that state from lodging in his mind.

Hours passed. The tapestry of night gradually weaved among the heavens, glittering with stars. Down below, in what might be best described as a tin shed with extensions, lay the patients, recovering from having bits of metal extracted from their sorry, weakened bodies. At the end lay two doctors, patients themselves, but without shrapnel wounds.

The Major suffered stomach and intestinal pains, along with a pain in his heart. Every waking moment, even through the fire inside him, he felt his heart weigh down as if it were leaden. This pain could not be healed by doctors; only the Major himself could do it, but given his current state of health and mind could not bring himself to do so.

The Captain lying in the cot next to him was (arguably) slightly better off; his wounds were mental. He suffered hallucinations of the fiercest kind and nightmares a horror movie would be hard-pressed to match. Every waking moment, he dreaded the time where his body could no longer take consciousness. His path to sleep was forced; collapsing and doing dreadful damage to himself in the process was formerly his only way. Nowadays, he was sedated by a fellow Captain, his long-suffering friend, with tears in his eyes. That Captain had since left, carrying an empty needle in his hand and an ocean of grief in his heart.

The night wore on. As the fellow patients happily slept and Frank lay in bed, Hawkeye had a dream.

Hawkeye woke. He was greeted by the morning sun shining across his eyes. "Urgh," he mumbled as the pillow found its way over his head instead of under it.

_Knock, knock._ "Pierce, get up now, you have patients to attend to!"

Hawkeye started to rise but stopped… that wasn't Frank's voice, nor Trapper's, nor Henry's… in fact, it had a Korean lilt to it…

"For crying out loud, paranoia will get you nowhere. The strange man's right, now get up," he sternly told himself. Though his aching body protested strongly to being moved, his managed to drag himself out of bed and into some pseudo-respectable clothes.

"Come out with your hands in the air! You are now a prisoner!"

Prisoner!

This could only mean North Koreans. Without thinking, Hawkeye took the jug of lighter fluid from the Still and gulped down huge mouthfuls before slightly opening the door. He knew it was folly to stand against an unknown number of North Koreans, especially when one didn't believe in the use of guns to defend oneself. If he was going to be dragged around in an indecent fashion, at least he'd have something in him.

Hawkeye reluctantly stepped out the door of the Swamp, knowing that he'd be dragged out if he didn't. He couldn't comprehend the sight that met his eyes.

Instead of the compound full of officers and enlisted personnel wandering around, it was chockers with North Koreans, who had everyone bundled up in groups of three or four, tied together tightly with pieces of rope Hawkeye recognised as belonging to the 4077th. Two spotted him wandering out of his tent and rushed to tie him up. They didn't put him with anyone else; evidently he was regarded as so important a prisoner they were going to take a little more care with him. The important-looking North Koreans dragged Hawkeye over to the Mess Tent, where they propped him up against the canvas of the tent outside. From there, Hawkeye got a good look all around camp.

The nurses were tied up more or less together; their faces were universally white, with the natural exception of Ginger, who was looking around worriedly. Nurse Cutler spotted Hawkeye and tried to wave; a sharp whack from a North Korean's stick put paid to that.

The enlisted men were also tied up more or less together. Hawkeye spotted Radar, who looked more scared than Hawkeye thought it was possible to look. Radar seemed frozen to where he sat and didn't dare move a muscle.

"That's funny," thought Hawkeye, "Igor's not with them…"

"So, who's the bigshot now, eh?"

Hawkeye's head snapped up, only to come eye-to-eye with Major Frank Burns. Frank, strangely enough, had a look of complete and utter joy on his face, as if the arrival of the North Koreans was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

"Frank!" whispered Hawkeye urgently. "What the hell are you doing? Those are _North Koreans!_"

Frank smiled his trademark sinister smile. "I am well aware of that, Pierce."

Hawkeye's expression turned to one of utter bewilderment. "Then why are you wandering around? You hate North Koreans! Why haven't you shot them to bits by now?"

"Pierce, compatriot, you mustn't have heard the latest news. The peace treaty has been signed!"

Even in his slightly inebriated state Hawkeye knew that was rubbish. "Peace treaty? What peace treaty? Between the North Koreans and Frank Burns?" He laughed softly, as if such a thing was ridiculous.

"That's exactly right."

Before Hawkeye could say another word, two North Koreans arrived; one was carrying a huge tray of mashed potato. Hawkeye recognised it as the very same he ate every day in the Mess Tent. He barely had time to wonder how the North Koreans had come by such a large amount of the stuff when the two both grabbed large handfuls – and squished it in Hawkeye's face.

"Bleargh! Eugh!" He tried to get it off but his hands were tied behind his back. No sooner had he cleared his throat than the two soldiers with the potato stuffed more in his mouth. On and on it went, Hawkeye either swallowing the potato, letting it sit on his face, or spitting it in the North Koreans' direction. One particularly pleasing spit landed in one of the North Koreans' eyes, sending him running toward the nearest tap.

"Well, well, well."

Hawkeye looked up. Frank Burns was standing above him, free as a bird, smirking as if there was no tomorrow. Hawkeye's eyes widened, but couldn't say anything due to the potato stuffed in his mouth.

"No biting, smart-alec remarks now, eh, Pierce!"

Hawkeye, sick to the stomach from all the potato he'd consumed, was starting to lose touch with reality. His head started to spin; images around him flitted in his mind, like flipping the corners of a book.

-The nurses in a bunch

-Henry standing alone, looking out at everything

-The enlisted men

-A North Korean, scary as all hell

-Radar's petrified face

-More damned mashed potato

-Igor, laughing frighteningly, eyes wide

-Frank's smirking face

Hawkeye looked frantically around him; he was nowhere to be seen. Spitting out a mouthful of potato over the North Korean's privates, he took a deep breath. His eyes darted around wildly. With the man he sought nowhere in sight, he yelled furiously -

"TRAPPER!"

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

Trapper leant against the tin walls of Post-Op, sipping a mug of the ersatz coffee they'd all grown used to. It achieved more of a placebo effect than anything else; the coffee was so bad it wasn't likely to do anything for him except trick his weary mind into believing it was still awake. He wasn't aware of the hour of night, except that his patients needed checking on.

Before he could take a step into the Post-Op Ward, a hand knocked on his shoulder. Trapper tensed immediately, hoping it wasn't Hawkeye sleepwalking. Slowly turning around, he didn't immediately recognise the man…

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Aren't you a-"

"Patient, yes," the man replied softly. "Sir, there are two patients at the end of the ward; one is thrashing about in his sleep, the other keeps vomiting into his bedpan. I realise you checked barely fifteen minutes ago, sir, but-"

"I was just about to check again. Thank you, er…"

"Lieutenant Hutchinson, sir. I urge you, come quickly."

Trapper took two steps toward Post-Op –

"_NOOOOOOOOOOOO!"_

The two jumped simultaneously. Lt. Hutchinson raced for Post-Op; Trapper muttered "Shit!" a little too loudly and ran through the door, turning on the light as he entered.

Bloody hell, that's probably done it, the whole camp'll be awake now!

As he ran, patients on either side blinked and groaned, forced awake by the sound and light. It didn't take Trapper long to reach the two sick doctors. Frank was sitting up, emptying what was left of the contents of his stomach into a bedpan. He looked up at Trapper, his blue-green eyes wide and prominent against his deathly pale complexion. Trapper, as always, thoroughly ignored him and hurried to Hawkeye's bedside. Hawkeye was thrashing and twitching in his sleep, flailing about and pushing away the bedcovers.

"_TRAPPER!"_

Trapper grabbed hold of Hawkeye's shoulders and began shaking him. "Hawkeye! Hawkeye! Wake up!"

"_Trapper… no, god no… NO!"_ Hawkeye kept twitching and trying to curl up in the foetal position.

"Hawkeye... Hawkeye, it's okay, I'm here, I'm not leaving!"

"_NO! Please no, not Trapper, he doesn't deserve this…"_

Trapper's eyes were filling with tears. Many of the patients were by now fully awake, including Lt. Hutchinson who was closely watching Trapper's every move.

"Hawkeye! Wake up, please wake up, it's just a nightmare…" Trapper kept shaking him, desperate for him to awaken.

"_Frank! You… you're not bound! You… and Igor! You're not… HELP ME! Don't…"_

At the mention of his name Frank perked up and started paying a little more attention. Trapper's head shook. Hawkeye would normally have woken by now… what was it about this particular nightmare that kept him in its clutches?

He leant over and shouted in his ear, "HAWKEYE! WAKE UP!"

Why wouldn't they help? Why did they stand there? "God…if I ever get out of this mess, Frank and Igor are going to die…"

"HAWKEYE! WAKE UP!"

He shuddered at the noise… that wasn't the North Koreans… though they kept shaking him. Igor and Frank kept laughing in the corner, pointing their potato-smeared fingers at him and laughing some more. Henry stood by, surveying the scene from above. Stupid damn Henry. Fucking Frank and Igor…

"Hawkeye! Hawkeye, please, wake up, it's only a dream!"

A dream? A dream… what the hell would he know… Hawkeye looked up and saw –

"Trapper?"

Trapper was utterly lost for words. Hawkeye was wide-eyed in blind fear, stricken dumb by the horrors in his mind. He was trembling and shaking slightly, but not like the sleep-thrashing that had so alarmed his best friend. He barely noticed a thing as Trapper sat him up in bed and kneeled next to him. Though every patient was wide awake, the Post-Op Ward was completely and utterly silent.

"Hawkeye, don't worry, everything will be all right," he whispered. Hawkeye looked around, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

"Did I-"

"Hallucinate again, yes. Now please, calm down, go to sleep."

"I did… and the-the-the North Koreans…they captured us… and Frank and Igor were laughing at me, and Henry was talking to them…and they…they…" Hawkeye gazed at Trapper like a small child does its parent.

"Look. Never mind what they did. It's just a dream. You're safe, Hawkeye. The North Koreans aren't going to capture us." Trapper stood up, one hand still on Hawkeye's shoulder. "Try to get some rest. You'll be all right." He walked to the door, giving a small wave as he did so. Hawkeye smiled back in appreciation.

"Oh, and Lieutenant Hutchinson?"

"Yes, sir?" Lt. Hutchinson sat up; he had since returned to bed.

"Keep an eye on Hawkeye for me."

"Yes, sir."

Hawkeye shook his head. "No, Trapper, I don't need watching. I'm a big boy now."

Trapper sighed. "It's for your own good, Hawk. You'll thank me later." He stepped out of the Post-Op Ward without another word and shivered as he walked across the compound. Again, he wasn't sure what time it was, except there was no hint of sunlight (yet) and the stars still glittered brightly.

Dear God… what did I do in a past life to end up with this!

"Trap?"

"You're asleep."

Trapper wandered into the Swamp, making a beeline for his cot. He didn't much care whether James was really asleep or only pretending. All he wanted was sleep, however awful, and to stop being pestered.

"No, I'm not."

"Do you want me to change that, or can you do that by yourself?"

James saw the sense in keeping silent. Evidently Trapper hadn't had a good shift. He rolled over and tried to look remotely asleep.

Trapper sat on his cot, sighing deeply as he did so. "Sorry, pal. Hawkeye was having another nightmare… it wasn't pretty."

James sat up, all pretence of sleep lost in an instant. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm sorrier. It means that Sidney's got his work cut out for him… as if he didn't already with me. I saw him and Henry discussing something…"

"You think it was you?"

"Who else? I mean, everyone around here's taken Hawkeye's illness pretty badly (and not cared about Frank's), but… I'm his best friend. He's worrying me to bits… and I guess it shows."

"Look, Trapper, worrying about it now isn't going to do you an ounce of good. Get some sleep and worry in the morning."

"I think it _is_ the morning… all right, all right, I'm going to sleep." Trapper lay down and fell asleep almost instantly. As he did so, James flicked his eyes to the first glimmers of light reaching over the Korean mountains.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

_Woohoo! Finished at last! Apologies again for the delay. Next chapter coming whenever it gets written! Probably won't be soon, so don't hold your breath. Thanks for reading:D_


	11. Chapter 11

_Told you this wasn't discontinued. Combo of laziness, writer's block and no internet led to the delay. Somewhere during the interlude, I realised this story was indeed crapola and focussed my energies elsewhere. A look on the stats page made me realise how many people liked this story, which spurred me to continue it. _

_Sorry also for the disappointing length of this chapter. I figured it was better to at least get something down._

Chapter 11 

A new day greeted the MASH personnel, in much the same fashion as it greeted them every other day; with piercing rays and glare off jeep windscreens to blind the toughest of eyes and wake the deepest of sleepers. Moans and groans uttered from every occupied tent, so much so that it seemed as if the entire camp was having one large, simultaneous groan.

James McCulloch looked over at his tent buddy, Trapper John McIntyre. Though James had been at the 4077th less than a week, he felt as if he'd been a part of it for years. It was, he mused, merely unfortunate timing that he had arrived during one of its most turbulent periods.

Two beds within the Swamp were empty. One belonged to Hawkeye Pierce, Korean wonder-surgeon and womaniser. The other belonged to Frank Burns, 'regular army' ferret-face. James himself had been sleeping on a fourth cot that had once belonged to someone called Spearchucker Jones.

Trapper began to stir, mumbling. "Mmmm… c'mon honey…"

"Wow, he sure loves that blanket…" James muttered, addressing the Still.

"Is there anyone at this unit who isn't slightly insane?"

"Dunno…" replied Trapper, still half-asleep. "Nuts might be a better way of describing it, but don't tell Klinger that."

As always, the Mess Tent loomed as Trapper and James, half-awake but surprisingly fully-dressed, waddled towards it.

"Don't tell me. Some lunatic will be dishing up something nasty for breakfast," said James, in an attempt to make conversation.

"Captain McIntyre!"

The two turned to see Nurse Ginger Bayliss running towards them. "What is it, Ginger?" called Trapper.

"I did the tests on those potatoes like you asked me to, Doctor."

"And?"

"And I found traces of arsenic."

James looked up at Trapper, who appeared lost in thought. Noting how unlikely this situation was, James made for Post-Op, but Trapper stopped him.

"No, no, no. I have a better idea. Let's ask our friends on kitchen detail their secrets, shall we?"

James shrugged and followed his friend into the Mess Tent.

Igor Straminsky eyed the surgeons with as much disdain as he could muster. Why did they have to keep following him? After all, he was a Private. It wasn't as if they had much to fear from him.

"Hey, Igor. We've come to sample your handiwork."

The two surgeons each took a tray and lined up. "Let's see… we have creamed corn, creamed potatoes, creamed meatloaf, creamed coffee… is there anything here that isn't creamed?"

"Er, we have boiled spinach, sirs."

"Oh, what a privilege! Boiled spinach! Delicacy, indeed!" proclaimed James.

"Ah, shuddup. I'll take a bit of everything. I'll take a bit of your time, too."

"We want to see how you do it."

"What, cream corn? You guys know how to do that… yes sirs." Igor saluted and hurried off to the back of the Mess Tent.

"Rodriguez!"

"Yo?"

"Clear out!"

"Igor, you're a Private! You can't tell me what to do!"

"The surgeons are coming!"

"Shit…" Rodriguez scurried out, as did the majority of the men on kitchen duty.

"I just meant Rodri… oh, thanks guys! Leave me to do all the explaining!"

"What explaining?"

Igor spun around, his eyes wide as Trapper John McIntyre stood in front of him. Trap was in no mood to play games.

"Er, the explaining of how to cream corn, sirs. See, firstly, you get the corn, then…"

While Igor carried on sharing his corn-creaming recipe to the wall, Trapper's eye wandered to a sack sitting in the corner of the kitchen. Below the Korean characters the sack read "Potato: Eat at your own risk."

"Igor?"

"…the corn will – yessir?"

"Look, you know as well as I do the potatoes aren't meant to be eaten, but why does the Army have to tell us that?" Trapper asked, motioning to the sack.

"Well, they're not Army potatoes, sir. They're, er…" Igor suddenly wished he hadn't asked Rodriguez to clear out. "We got 'em from a group of Korean farmers down the road."

"Which Korean farmers?"

"Er… I dunno, sir. Rodriguez was the guy who brought 'em up. Ask him." James caught Trapper's eye and ran outside, calling "Rodriguez!"

"Sir?"

Called the man in question, a stocky Sergeant with tousled, mangy hair and a few missing teeth. James had seen him once or twice, usually playing poker or craps with Zale and Rizzo's gang.

"Ah, you're the new man in town. Captain McCulloch, innit?"

"Sure am." James plastered the cheesiest grin he could muster all over his face. Thankfully for him, Rodriguez seemed to buy it. "Say, I was just wondering where you got those potatoes from. You could actually tell they were vegetables!"

Rodriguez beamed. "Ah, I obtained 'em from a Korean friend of mine, who gets 'em for, aha, _very_ good prices, if you catch my drift."

"I see. Just wondering. Thanks, Rodriguez!"

"Anytime, sir!"

James trundled back to the Mess Tent, where Igor's dulcet tedium continued to stream out the door. He had a lot to think about.

_Sorry it took so long, but there you go! A semblance of plot! Promise the next lot will be up quicker than this one. Thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

_Yo again. Please read and review. Got exams coming up, though that is no excuse not to write lots of literary horse hockey. It is, however, an excuse to spend one's computer hour studying instead._

_A shout out to Sporky, as well as anyone else still reading this story, if such people actually exist._

**Chapter 12. Makes sense when you think about it.**

_My darling Louise,_

_Sorry I haven't sent you much mail lately. We really have been busy. It's not enjoyable busy, though I can't think of much that _is_ enjoyable around here._

_We've got something going around here. Frank Burns – you remember him, he's the nincompoop – has gastro and doesn't shut up about it. You'd hate him, Louise. He's pale and bony with no lips. Not like yours truly, eh? You'd know better than most._

_Hawkeye Pierce is a different kettle of fish. You see, we aren't quite sure what's wrong with him. I've got a feeling our potatoes were the rotten variety. Our replacement surgeon, Captain McCulloch, is chasing up a few things. Hawk hasn't been himself. He's been sleepwalking, having these god-awful nightmares… He's a fantastic guy, Louise. The finest kind, as he'd say. Of course, he'd be more fantastic if we could find out what's wrong with him. I'm sure you two would get along famously, that is if I let you ever meet. McCulloch's nice, but he just isn't the same._

_Wish I had better news for you. Sorry to disappoint. I hope to hear from – or better, see – you soon._

_Take care,_

_John_

"Trapper!"

He awoke. Looking around, he couldn't help but shake his head in relief. No one was sleepwalking, no one was having nightmares. He, Trapper John, was the one falling asleep. At last.

"Yo, Trap! Trap? Earth to Trapper!?"

Hawkeye pulled on his arm. Hawkeye. That's right. He was in Post-Op, apparently checking on his patients. Must have fallen asleep again. Trapper shook his head again. He had to stop falling asleep! Hot Lips didn't appreciate snoozing on the job.

"Yeah, I'm here, Hawk," Trapper mumbled snoozily. Hawkeye sat up. Trap hadn't been himself lately. Hawkeye wished they'd figure out what was ailing him: it pissed him off no end not knowing what was wrong and being denied the opportunity to prescribe his own medication. At least today he was able to keep his eyes open.

"Trap, why don't you head swampward and sleep it off. You look terrible."

"I'm on duty, dammit. Hot Lips will have my guts for garters if I fall asleep again. Sleep what off?"

"Well, er, you look kinda hung-over." Hung-over was rather a nice way of putting it: Trapper appeared to be permanently squinting and moaned whenever a loud sound was made. He'd snapped at Radar delivering the mail that morning, thrown potato in Igor's face, even reduced Klinger to tears when he directly ordered the snazzily-dressed Corporal to stop wearing a particularly striking blue shirt. "Looks too much like…" He'd meant to say Hawkeye's Hawaiian shirt, but couldn't get the words out. Whether Klinger's tears were out of frustration, anger, or sadness at being reminded of everyone's favourite Captain, Trapper couldn't quite tell. It appeared to all he'd saved his daily quota of good cheer for his best friend.

"No, I'm fine," Trapper spluttered stubbornly. "I'm more interested in how _you_ are."

"Not interesting enough to require the use of an adjective. Now go and sleep! You're starting to _look_ like a martini!"

Trapper stood up, shaking his head drunkenly as he did so. "Get well soon, Hawk. If I could write straight I'd make you a card."

"That won't be necessary. Now go!"

As his best friend stumbled out the Post-Op door, Hawkeye slowly sat up and reached for the bottle of antibiotics on the stand. It would be folly to pull it out, not to mention extremely painful, so Hawkeye gingerly stood up and placed the bottle (tubing still attached) into his pocket. The nurses had given in and allowed him his familiar red bathrobe from the Swamp. Quietly, when Nurse Kellye wasn't looking, he tiptoed to the Post-Op door, opened it, and stole away into the afternoon gloom.

As Hawkeye wandered to the edge of camp arguing with himself over whether to pay Rosie a visit, a flash of green, nearly out of his sight, stopped him in his tracks. Bright, vivid green that seemed to attract the sunlight against the drab, khaki backdrop. Hawkeye stared, confused and open-mouthed, at a Sergeant with a few missing teeth and hair like a bird's nest chatting animatedly with a Korean trader. At his feet lay two Hessian sacks marked "POTATOES". The Sergeant flashed a grin that could be described as toothy if it had featured any teeth as he accepted a small vial from the trader. More flashes of green. Green, not red. No one had green money around here.

Hawkeye's brow furrowed almost by itself as the Sergeant, with his few words of Korean, haggled with the trader. Eventually they agreed on a price. As the Sergeant turned back toward camp, the silvery contents of the vial caught Hawk's eye, so to speak. A label, almost too small to read, quietly spelled "Arsenic."

The burgundy, blood-stained earth of Korea had never looked so nice to our protagonist as, unseen and unbelieving, he fell gently forwards into the dust.

……ooooooOOOOOOoooooo……

"Where the hell _is_ he?!"

Naturally, Trapper John McIntyre had not reacted well to the news given him by a Lieutenant shaking in his boots. Hawkeye had been perfectly within his rights as Chief Surgeon to prescribe outside visits for himself, except the entire medical corps had been directly ordered (and in Margaret's case, directly blackmailed) to keep him in his bed. Sidney Freedman had watched on with great interest as Trapper angrily growled at the post-op staff, desperate to find out where his buddy had gone.

"Kellye, _you_ were on duty when he wandered off. How could you let him just walk off like that? How could-"

"Captain McIntyre!"

"I'm busy, Radar."

"Sir, someone's found Captain Pierce!"

Radar quickly sidestepped out of the way as Trapper leapt up and sped out the door, squinting as the sun met his eyes. He bounded toward two enlisted men carrying between them a man bundled in red whom Trapper would recognise anywhere.

"How is-"

"Sir, he's alive, he's breathin' but he ain't sayin' much. Keeps mutterin' to 'imself 'bout arsenic, or somethin' like that. Dunno why."

Arsenic…arsenic…

And suddenly, with an air of cliché unnoticed by everyone in the compound, something clicked.

"Klinger! Go to the mess tent and bring me Igor and Rodriguez, now."

"_Now_ now, sir?"

"What other nows are there? Go!"

As Klinger waddled toward the mess tent sporting pumps and a blue summer dress, Trapper turned to the runaway. His face, front and robe were caked with dirt, with the IV bottle in his pocket somehow unbroken after his fall. An eyelid prised itself awake and, after recognising Trapper, its owner started tugging at his friend's hanging dog tags.

"Trap… 's arsenic… Sarge…no teeth… Korean…"

Hawkeye's half-words seemed to scamper from his mouth, in search of a willing listener. Such a listener, barely a metre away, added it all up in his head.

When he arrived at the conclusion, he shook his head sadly. It explained a lot of things, but not all of them. The curly-haired Captain stood up, without even being aware he'd crouched in the first place, and watched as two medics loaded Hawkeye onto a stretcher and carried him inside.

"I'm gonna make a house call," he mused, half-aloud. "And he ain't gonna like it one bit."

_Sorry for the delay in posting it: I had this ready a week ago but the library computer refused to let me post stuff._


	13. Chapter 13

_Hey kids. I read over my reviews (my ego-inflating exercise :D) and someone mentioned how they really liked the dreams and hallucinations. Well, I figured I'd put one in, just for kicks. Don't forget, no reviews no ego no story! (A special hello to Vandevere, who is pleased I restarted this story. Also the ubiquitous Sporky, whom I'm never sure is reading this or not.)_

Chapter 13 (spooky) 

Frank Burns didn't like to think of himself as a superstitious person. He'd never gone in for astrology and palm-reading, none of that rubbish. Not like Louise did, checking her horoscopes every day. Ridiculous. But he'd heard Hawkeye's strangled cries the night before. Granted, Frank had been rather preoccupied with emptying his stomach into the nearest bedpan, and had no intention of displaying sympathy or anything of the sort. It didn't make sense to Frank. Nothing made sense these days. Pierce was the only one falling off the deep end. Frank absently wondered whether Pierce wanted R&R again, and whether his latest scheme would work. He chuckled to himself, irrationally thinking how jealous Klinger was going to be.

Frank turned back to the issue of Reader's Digest he'd pored over for the past week. In a couple of days he'd be on his feet again, showing that Captain McCulloch how things ought to be done. But in the meantime, he settled for being powerfully interested in the Grand Canyon.

"Frank, we need words."

"Go soak your head," Frank retorted, though with less force than he'd hoped. Was he really that much of a weakling?

"I'll soak yours in alcohol and set it alight if you aren't co-operative."

Frank realised it was useless to argue with McIntyre, even if he _was_ an inferior officer. He settled for being as unhelpful as possible. That'd really piss him off.

"What do you want, McIntyre?"

"I want to talk with you. About the mess tent food."

"What do you want from me? We both know it's crap."

"Indeed, but why the sudden bout of sickness? Why are two surgeons suddenly busted up in Post-Op?"

There it was again, that niggling feeling in Frank's unconscious. No, he told it, you niggle back to where you came from and don't bother me.

"Well, when I volunteered for KP duty everyone commented on how nice the potatoes were."

"And Hawkeye fell sick shortly afterward. No one else, just Hawkeye. And you."

"Well, er, I wasn't feeling too good that particular day. Maybe it was something I picked up during triage. You know what Canadians are like. Do they even wash north of the 49th parallel?"

Trapper chose to ignore this last remark and ploughed on. "It happened when _you_ were on KP. Not Klinger, not Igor, not Rodriguez, not anybody. You. Do you see where I'm going?"

"Hopefully back… back to the Swamp, scumbag." Frank was secretly quite peeved Trapper hadn't quite given up yet.

"Tough luck, Ferret Face. I'm not finished. How did you do it? I keep getting asked by the nursing staff how and why we had potatoes that actually tasted like potatoes! Y'know how ridiculous that is?"

"…Yeah, it is a bit silly, eh?" Frank let out a small giggle, which he hadn't meant to do, but those compliments were so very amusing…

Trapper surveyed this from above, his brain cells plodding along as usual. He hoped Frank would be of some help: it bothered Trapper intensely that he had to take charge and find out what was going on. Usually he'd leave that to Hawkeye.

"Seriously, Frank. What's your secret?"

"Well, I… er… really got it from the other KP staff, Private Straminsky and Sergeant Rodriguez. The Private especially, he obtained the secret ingredient." Frank smiled, very pleased with himself.

"That secret ingredient wouldn't happen to be arsenic, would it?"

Frank – the conscious part – began to feel very uneasy about the whole situation. Arsenic? Was that it? True, Rodriguez had dropped by a few days ago to boast about his new haggling technique and… now Frank thought about it, that nice, shiny bottle glinting from his pocket was probably…

For the first time in their collective memory, Trapper and Frank each saw their own expression on the other's face.

…oooOOOooo…

Later that evening, while sirens blared and a stream of choppers beared down on the hospital, Frank had a dream.

The haze cleared before him to reveal the inside of the Mess Tent, with the chairs organised as if for church. From his vantage point high above, Frank's ghost looked down upon the proceedings. It seemed unusual for so many people to be going to church: normally it was just him, Margaret and Father Mulcahy, plus whatever enlisted men Frank could round up. Today, it was actually standing-room-only near the back. Frank's heart jarred from within his translucent chest as he realised what was happening. He was watching his own memorial service.

Margaret sat rigid in the silence, wrapping her emotions tightly around her thin frame. Henry's eyes were wide, his hand clenched around a non-existent beer bottle he'd downed hours ago. Klinger and Radar were muttering to each other, the latter torn between tears and a joyous whoop. Trapper John stared intently at the tarpaulin ceiling, the pulpit, the collar around the good Father's neck, anything except the small memorial to Frank that stood at the front. It featured a picture of the Major smiling in his dress uniform, a bunch of wildflowers carelessly strewn, his ratty, over-loved Bible and his dog tags, glinting in the noontime sun.

Yet Frank's psyche didn't remember dying: it only knew of a service in its honour. One minute he had been lying in post-op, pondering his surely approaching demise, the next he had skipped said demise entirely and stayed on to watch.

"Father, no due respect or anything, but are we going to get on with this? I have patients I would love to stare at for the next few hours."

"Of course. We'll start right away."

Klinger called for quiet and everyone settled into their seats, or shoes for those standing at the back.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to have had to assemble you all at such short notice. For those unaware of recent events, we are here today to celebrate the death of… oh dear…"

As it became clear to all Father Mulcahy had inadvertently verbalised the feelings of everyone present, the mood in the Mess Tent lightened dramatically. After a tactless demi-silence punctuated by sniggers and whisperings, Radar began to play a jaunty tune on the piano. People rose to sing different songs simultaneously, all of which somehow contained the words "Ferret Face" and a few curse words best left to the imagination.

Father Mulcahy rustled his papers, attempting to gain the attention of the now jovial crowd. However, he soon saw resurrecting the service – so to speak – would be no use and soon joined the fun.

Trapper made his way to the pulpit. "Ladies and gentlemen! I would like to propose a toast to Major Franklin Marion Burns."

Sniggers erupted from a bunch of enlisted men. "Haha! _Marion!_"

Trapper waited for the chortling to die down. "A toast to Frank, who was a rubbish surgeon, a rubbish person, but a great excuse to throw a party." He raised his glass of punch. "Goodbye, Ferret Face!"

"Goodbye, Ferret Face!" shouted the congregation, as shouts and cheers reverberated around the tent.

Alone and unseen, Frank's ghost began to sniffle in a corner. It's only a dream, he sternly told himself. You'll wake up in the morning and everything will be as it was. They don't really hate you this much.

His unconscious bothered him, even in his self-created alternate universe.

The scene changed…

Frank found himself wandering through the compound. It was mid-morning, judging by the heat which hadn't yet arrived. A few of the prisoners hissed at him and made faces as he walked by.

Prisoners?

He snapped awake, so to speak: his mind shifted into higher gear. The compound was swarming with North Korean soldiers. They must have overrun the place! Commies! Commies, attacking a US Army hospital! How dare they! Couldn't they see the red cross, the OR, wounded in Post-Op?

Frank reached for his gun. It was sitting conveniently in its holster, which in turn was attached conveniently to his pants. His eyes darted from left to right and back again, figuring out what he was going to do. Frank felt as if someone had plugged his brain into the electricity supply.

"Do not worry, Major Burns. You are on our side."

The voice vanished as soon as it appeared, right behind Frank's head. Being a little lacking in the carriage department, he whizzed around, lost his balance and fell flat on his tush. Frank's head whizzed around, taking in the sights.

Instead of the compound full of officers and enlisted personnel wandering around, it was chockers with North Koreans, who had everyone bundled up in groups of three or four, tied together tightly with pieces of rope Frank recognised as belonging to the 4077th. He'd barely begun to wonder how the Commies had come by this rope when he spotted none other than Hawkeye Pierce, sitting by himself outside the Mess Tent. A grin spread all by itself over Frank's face. He drummed his fingers against his gun, still sitting in its holster. Still grinning, he walked over to where Pierce was sitting.

"So, who's the bigshot now, eh?"

Frank stared down at Pierce as the Captain's head snapped up, so the two were eye-to-eye. Frank saw Pierce's eyes narrow as he stared at the Major's joyous visage.

"Frank!" whispered Pierce, looking scared. "What the hell are you doing? Those are _North Koreans!_"

Frank smiled his trademark sinister smile. "I am well aware of that, Pierce."

Pierce's expression turned to one of utter bewilderment. "Then why are you wandering around? You hate North Koreans! Why haven't you shot them to bits by now?"

"Pierce, compatriot, you mustn't have heard the latest news. The peace treaty has been signed!"

Frank wasn't quite sure where that came from, but evidently Pierce wasn't buying it either. "Peace treaty? What peace treaty? Between the North Koreans and Frank Burns?" Pierce laughed softly, as if such a thing was ridiculous. Frank couldn't possibly be _this_ off the rails.

"That's exactly right."

Frank cackled to himself as he wandered to the back of the Mess Tent. As if on cue, two of those Commies had arrived with a huge mound of mush, that potato which haunted Frank even in his waking hours. Frank couldn't help but smile contentedly as they threw the pounds of crap at Pierce. From the sounds of things, Hawkeye wasn't enjoying it.

"Rodriguez!" he whispered urgently to the door-flap.

"Yes, sir?"

"What are you doing? Those Commies are wasting-"

Rodriguez came to the flap, his ruddy, weather-beaten face and Sergeant's fatigues covered with potato.

"Firstly, sir, they're not _Commies_, they are _North Koreans_. There's a difference. Secondly, they are not _wasting_, they are _effectively using._ Again, a difference. Thirdly, I don't see what this has to do with you, since you only joined at the last minute anyway! Get lost, sir!"

"But Sergeant," began Frank in his whiny voice the camp would know anywhere, "the ground is covered with potato mash! Why are these Com-Koreans here anyway? Who let them here?"

Rodriguez grinned his toothless grin. "I did. Now shoo, sir. You're attracting attention. That wouldn't help our plans, would it now?"

"Er, no, Rodri-" Frank was cut off by the _whoosh_ of the door-flap closing in his face. He walked back around to find Igor watching the happenings and quite enjoying himself. Pierce looked decidedly pale and sick, his eyes were out of focus and his mouth hung open, full of potato.

"Well, well, well."

Pierce snapped back to reality: there was Frank, still smirking, and Igor, still laughing. Frank stared down at his favourite enemy, lying, defeated, on the wall of the Mess Tent.

"No biting, smart-alec remarks now, eh, Pierce!"

Frank was overjoyed to witness Pierce's eyes began to drift out of focus: he was beginning to obviously lose his mind.

Who's losing their mind now, Frank?

Pierce's eyes darted back and forth, looking for something. There they were. Still grinning. Still laughing. Frank stood, confused, as _his_ prisoner (not the Commies' prisoner, Major Burns' prisoner) looked more and more anxious and scared. With the man Pierce evidently sought nowhere in his sight, he yelled furiously –

"TRAPPER!"

…oooOOOooo…

And at this point Frank's long-suffering unconscious conscience burst free from its shackles. It pulled Frank out of his silvery pool of slumber, knocking on the back door of his mind as it did so. Frank hadn't the strength to push his conscience back under, so it bubbled, menacingly, to the surface.

"Yes! It was! It was!" Frank's face crumpled as he began to sob piteously, his cries heard only by the unsympathetic darkness.

Or so he thought.

Sidling along the Post-Op door leading to the night outside stood an enlisted man, technically on guard duty. His gun barrel reflected the light hanging above the door as the man examined his weapon. A strangled howl caught his attention: he turned to look inside. The Major continued to weep into his bedclothes and mutter soothing half-words to himself, not expecting anyone to be watching him at his lowest ebb.

The enlisted man turned away, not wishing to intrude on the Major's privacy. He leant against the corrugated iron walls of Post-Op, swearing under his breath as he fumbled with an unlit cigar. His hands were cold and clammy, carrying his gun in the moonlight.

It took several seconds for the man to fully grasp what he'd seen. With the weight of his realisation suddenly upon him, he scurried across the compound to the back of the Mess Tent. The man mumbled a harried whisper to the tent flap. At once, a muscled forearm sprang out of the doorway and pulled him inside.

_Please review._


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks for tuning in, folks. Note: I do tend to recycle good lines I see elsewhere. If you recognise a sentence or two, take it as a large compliment. It's meant that way, anyhow. A large thankyou is also in order to people who have reviewed this story. Logging on at the library every weekend and reading all your kind reviews really makes it. (My weekend, that is.)_

_At the risk of sounding like a broken PA system, all I own is the idea and two characters: Captain McCulloch and Sergeant Rodriguez. That's it. Everything else is Fox's._

**Chapter 14**

Major Sidney Freedman, first-class shrink and the 4077th's saviour, absently poked his tray of mystery lunch. To his mild bemusement, the greyish lump grandly referred to as 'steak' wobbled for quite a while before coming to a stop. Though he was quite sure any steak with more than about five percent meat content didn't wobble so, Sidney didn't preoccupy himself with the matter. He had, so to speak, bigger steaks to poke.

A rumour had muttered itself across the Mess Tent all through breakfast that morning. With no clear indication of who had started the scuttlebutt, everyone took it upon themselves to suddenly become experts on the situation. The nurses demurely discussed what might happen next, while Sergeant Zale and minions eagerly laid bets on who would be the first to go.

Through the simple door marked "Kitchen," Luther Rizzo, Igor Straminsky and Fernando Rodriguez had stood in a lazy circle, speaking in low, soft voices. Since Rodriguez had dragged in the sentry the previous night only to be told of Frank's shout of "Yes! It was! It was!" the trio had been up all night racking their collective brain (for they only really had one between them) as to what Frank was talking about. Everyone, including the sentry, had assumed that the KP men had gone to bed, or in Rizzo's case to jeep. Aside from Henry's offhand "you boys are early this morning; the food's on time" and Rizzo's hurried "er, yessir, we, uh, couldn't sleep, sir," no one had suspected a thing.

Not that Sidney knew any of that, to be sure. He was preoccupied with cornering Trapper and convincing him to talk. Ever since Sidney had arrived just a few days ago (though it seemed like weeks to the weary Major) the Captain had managed to evade him through the timely arrival of wounded, in addition to choice visits to the Officer's Club and the other side of insanity.

Sidney added it all up in his head as the Mess Tent filled and emptied around him. His lunch remained uneaten.

…oooOOOooo…

"How ya going, Hawk?"

Trapper looked down at his best friend as he stirred from an uneasy slumber. His eyes were puffy and blue around the edges, cracked open at the feeling of sunlight. Though his skin was pale and his face had lost its usual jovial lustre, Trapper could still see some of the old life in Hawkeye. He could only hope the old life wouldn't stay old.

"By plane, boat, jeep and chopper to Crabapple Cove. How do you think I'm going?"

"I meant how are you feeling, jackass. And don't tell me 'with your hands,' " said Trapper, with an unusual hint of severity.

Hawk's eyes narrowed. "Are you all right, Trap?"

"Yep. Fine. Are you?"

"Trap, I don't much care about me at the moment. You look terrible!"

"I feel terrible. I'm a matching set. But you're the patient, not me. Now be a good little boy and say ah."

Trap took Hawk's temperature, pulse and blood pressure. His temp was still a little high and blood pressure a bit low for Trapper's liking, but his pulse was OK.

"Bad news, son. You're gonna make it," declared Trapper in a fatherly tone, placing one hand on Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Oh, so you know what I've got?" asked Hawkeye hopefully.

"Well, no, but you seem to be recovering all right. All we did was stuff you full of penicillin, morphine and sedatives. Between 'em, they've fixed you up."

At the mention of "sedatives," Hawkeye's face softened and took on a concerned impression. "Sedatives? You mean… you had to _sedate_ me?"

"A couple of times. Once you were about to stab Frank with a scalpel."

"_Really_?" Hawkeye's face lit up, reminiscent of a small boy at Christmas time. "Why did you stop me?" he asked, incredulously.

"Too much paperwork. Army wants stuff in triplicate times ten when an officer's murdered by another officer."

Hawkeye didn't answer, instead staring at the needle-bruises on his arm. His bad veins had caused Trapper's choice injecting spots to bruise nastily.

"…_sedated_?" Hawk mumbled, while admiring his paintwork.

Trap took the opportunity to sit on the adjacent cot. "Look, Hawk… Ben," began Trapper, jerking his best friend's attention from his marble-painted arm. "There's no reason to get worked up because you went bananas a few times. The point is you're recovering nicely, and you should be up and causing trouble in a few days."

Hawkeye would not give Trapper the ego-inflating satisfaction of knowing how indebted he was to his curly-haired friend. Instead, he settled for a cheeky smile and a pinch of the cheek.

"Thanks for everything, Trap. You realise you'll have this on your conscience for the rest of your life?"

"I think I can handle it." Trapper flashed his not-too-pearly-white grin, one rarely seen in recent days. He got up, sent a brusque wave in Hawk's direction, and kept walking until he found himself alone in the Swamp.

As if on cue, he suddenly remembered a very important point left out of the preceding conversation.

"Damn!" Trapper mumbled, resisting a very strong temptation to kick the stove. "I forgot about the damn arsenic."

…oooOOOooo…

"Well, Major, let's get this over and done with."

As might be expected, Sidney's mood had not overly improved with the prospect of talking to Frank Burns. Henry had ordered Frank to pay Sidney a visit, fed up with the surgeon's continuous tirade of complaint. Sidney had outwardly assured Henry he was happy to talk to Frank, but underneath the visiting mind-doctor was very cranky.

So there they were: two Majors, neither of whom wished to be there, sitting in the VIP tent. Frank had avoided speaking or making eye contact with Sidney for the best part of half an hour.

"You do realise, Major, that sitting and staring at the roof of your eyeballs won't help you?"

"Who says I needed help?" yelped Frank defensively. Sidney sighed. He'd met many paranoid people in his time, the leader of whom was undoubtedly Colonel Flagg, but Frank was right up there with the CIA man.

"You're a sick man, Frank. You're going to need some help in order to recover." In answer, Frank proceeded to stare intently at his lap.

"Frank, are you _sure_ there's nothing you want to get off your chest? If you like, you can consider this a confessional. Whatever you say will not leave this room," offered Sidney, in a last-ditch attempt at conversation.

A long, tedious silence, then, "I've been a very bad man, Major."

"You don't say," remarked Sidney, with all the dryness of a Swamp martini.

"I mean, I've done some terrible things during my tenure here. I've gambled, I've become inebriated, I've performed shoddy surgery… but now, I've done something much worse." At this, Frank began to whimper pathetically and put his face in his hands.

"Are you willing to talk about it?" Sidney asked, in a slightly softer tone.

"Oh, Sidney… I think I've killed someone."

The last time Frank had (consciously) seen Hawkeye, he'd been carried into Post-Op by stretcher, muttering inanities to himself about Koreans, arsenic and a Sergeant somebody. His eyes had been out of focus, his skin clammy, his mind muddled. So had Hawkeye's, come to think of it.

"Really, Frank?" Sidney's left eyebrow raised itself.

"I don't mean in surgery-wise. I mean… person-wise."

Sidney listened wordlessly as Frank continued. "I… I just wanted some friends, you know? I mean, no one here likes me. Except Margaret, sometimes. And the Captains, but only when it suits them. So I got talking to some enlisted men, the ones always on kitchen duty. And they talked back! Not just saluting and saying 'sir' every three words. So I got… kind of, well, I buddied up to these guys. I _know_ it's against regulations – Page 37 of _The Army Officer's Guide_ specifically prohibits friendliness between officers and enlisted men. But none of the officers wanna be friends with me."

Before Frank could get any further, Radar's hoarse cry of "Choppers!" emanated across camp. Three seconds later, a faint whirring of helicopter blades met the Majors' ears. As Sidney stood up to leave, Frank looked at him forlornly, oddly reminding Sidney of dogs at the pound, clawing at cages in their desperation to go home.

"You've got to help me, Sidney!"

…oooOOOooo…

Trapper was having difficulty remembering a tougher OR session than that one. He was also having difficulty concentrating on his work after eighteen hours of surgery. With only three surgeons, and one inexperienced at that, Sidney had again been roped in to help. Even so, the casualties kept trucking in, as if the hospital were over a conveyor belt. Each of the surgeons had something different on his mind.

Henry Blake, though he was only performing an appendectomy (he figured as long as he was there, it would make sense to remove the troublesome little thing), couldn't concentrate. His five-thumbed hands, as Pierce would refer to them, were at it again. Thrice he'd dropped his instruments, twice he'd nearly left a sponge inside a patient.

All he wanted was for the outfit to behave itself. For the most part, he got his wish; the 4077th wasn't the most efficient military hospital this side of the 38th parallel for nothing. But he knew he wasn't cut out for command. Being in Korea allowed him to do so much more in terms of helping people in true need. Sure, teaching Bloomington, Illinois to say "ah" had its merits, but he felt Korea was better for him medically. It was just the command bit he didn't need. Especially when things started acting up. I-Corps knew you couldn't run a MASH unit on three doctors, but they refused to send any more replacements. Pierce and Burns had been sick for a week, they oughta get back on their feet.

But another part of Henry tapped him on the shoulder: that's not fair, Henry. It's not Pierce's fault he fell sick, nor was it Frank's. He knew Hawkeye hated being sick, and though Frank lapped up all the attention he could get while being ill, Henry doubted he'd volunteer for it in the first place.

Yet one thing still made no sense to Henry, above a lot of other things that didn't either: _why_ on earth did Frank volunteer for KP duty?

James McCulloch was quietly concentrating on removing small fragments from a Marine's lung. Though he'd done this sort of thing too many times since his arrival in Korea, and the MASH unit in particular, he simply couldn't get into the swing of things. The 4077th was unlike any other military establishment he'd ever seen. Fort Dix was efficient, trained, and GI to within an inch of its brass. The 121st Evac Hospital, though with less of the Army sheen about it, was also efficient and orderly. But this place? The bugler didn't know the difference between Reveille and Assembly, and admittedly couldn't play either with any semblance of tune. No one saluted anybody. There were no snap inspections, no callisthenics, no nothing… and James loved every bit of it.

Despite his instant taking to the place, he still wasn't quite comfortable. The whole camp had been on edge ever since everyone's favourite surgeon, Captain Hawkeye Pierce, had fallen mysteriously ill. Captain McIntyre had been too busy to talk to him, Major Burns didn't want to talk to him, and Colonel Blake seemed forever too intoxicated to talk to him. James felt very much in the dark.

Trapper John McIntyre had his hands full of abdominal muscle, punctuated with shrapnel. Damned shrapnel. Even after all the months he'd spent taking it out of kids, the North Koreans and the Chinese insisted on returning the stuff. It never changed. A part of him insisted it never would change, that the Korean War would outlast them all.

What had changed, however, was how quickly the camp had been turned on its tush. Suddenly, Hawkeye had fallen ill after dining at the Mess Tent. Not too unusual, given the KP staff's fondness for flu, but Hawk's nightmares and sleepwalking were definitely unusual. Now he, Trapper, was hearing whispers of a conspiracy between the enlisted and a certain officer. Trap wasn't inclined to take much in the way of latrine-o-grams seriously, but much of what he'd heard fitted. The arsenic, the Sergeant, the potato… Trapper was so absorbed in silently muttered plots he failed to concentrate as much as he otherwise would have on the patient in front of him. Yet everyone else had their heads wrapped so tightly in thought they failed to jolt him back to reality.

Sidney Freedman, at the far end of the OR, had his mind on many other things besides the deep laceration he was fixing up. He remained deeply troubled by what he'd managed to tease out of Frank before the choppers arrived. Frank? Friends with enlisted men? He hates enlisted men, Sidney told himself. He enjoys nothing more than giving a few Corporals and the like a good kick! Why the sudden change in attitude? It was true, he mused, that none of the other officers wanted to be friends with him. Henry had no time for him, Margaret was apparently staying well clear of him, and the Captains… well, Hawkeye and Trapper would never befriend Frank, regardless of how much they'd drunk. But so much else didn't add up…

His assisting nurse handed him the suture scissors a moment before he asked for them. It was a welcome snap, in the literal and figurative sense, to his distracted, idealised mind.

…oooOOOooo…

The Mess Tent was experiencing a definite downturn in business of late. Everyone who could was subsisting on stateside mail of the edible variety or making excessive visits to Rosie's Bar and Grill. Those who had no choice but to frequent the hotbed of food poisoning, flu and false eatables were steering well clear of the mashed potatoes. It was understandable, but hurtful to the kitchen staff.

"It's as if they don't even trust us anymore," mumbled Rodriguez, the morning after the latest batch of wounded which had kept most of the medical staff up all night. Igor, as night sentry, was fairly sure he'd heard Trapper and James head back to the Swamp at roughly 3am, but his memory was hazy: he'd been snoozing nearly the whole time.

"Of course they don't trust us, you damned fool. You see what we've done to this camp? We have triple-handedly ruined this Mess Tent's reputation," proclaimed Rizzo in a moment of big-headedness.

"Stop talkin' outta your arse, Rizzo," called Rodriguez from across the kitchen, his forearms caked in flour. "We never had no reputation to start with."

"You-! 'My arse' my arse! We had a great reputation! We could be relied upon for simple, wholesome fare! Right, Igor?" Rodriguez, in the middle of peeling his umpteenth potato, turned to the Private for support.

"R-Right," nodded Igor, who secretly thought they were both talking out of their rear ends, but would never say so. Both Rizzo and Rodriguez were bigger than he was, and both Sergeants. It was forever being made clear to Igor that _everyone_ outranked him. The enlisted men didn't worry about salutes too much, but Frank was crazy about it. Correction: _used_ to be crazy about it, mused Igor. He was too sick now to complain about military discipline, but as for the recent past…

"Next!"

With no officers to help out this week, Rodriguez was back wearing the ill-fitting chef's hat Frank adored so much. Thinking of Frank attracted most of the Sergeant's limited attention, and had to be startled back awake after the Private he was serving ended up with three helpings of mystery stew.

"Thanks for nothin', fella. I hate this crap you call food!" The Private stomped away in disgust, taking huge gulps from a hip-flask as he did so. Rodriguez attempted to smile at the next person in line, the next person being Sidney Freedman. Four hours' sleep had done little to improve the Major's overall disposition: he was _not_ eagerly awaiting his next game of "mystery mess tent."

Sidney's eye roved over the selection of "vegetables" on offer that day.

"I'll take some of that," he said to Rodriguez, pointing at the mound of mashed potatoes. Rodriguez's jaw hung loosely from his skull as much of the eating audience stared at him. Another doctor? Eating the potatoes? Surely they were becoming candidates for the funny farm, their gossip hinted, and Sidney could feel another latrine-o-gram in its infancy. "And hurry up about it, will you?"

Rodriguez continued to stare fixatedly at the potato, then at Sidney, as if trying to send him some sort of message. "Sir, just quietly, I really wouldn't eat those if I were you," he drawled. Sidney frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. Rodriguez hastily averted his eyes, trying to avoid Sidney's piercing gaze. The Sergeant dumped a spoonful of potato onto Sidney's tray, before his attention turned to Radar, the next in line, staring open-mouthed at the mashed potato.

Sidney found an unoccupied corner of the Mess Tent and sat down. He was about halfway through the marble-peas and thanking his lucky stars for his good teeth when he was joined by Trapper and James. The latter looked strangely refreshed, as if four hours' sleep had done him some good, whereas the former looked around half-blindly and reached for his hip-flask.

"Trapper, is it safe to be drinking that stuff this early in the morning?" enquired Sidney.

"Is this stuff _ever_ safe?" Trapper replied, taking a swig. "Mmm. Tomorrow was a very good year. Remind me to add Frank's underwear more often."

"You used Frank's underwear in that?" Sidney spluttered.

"Just as a filter. Mine were getting a bit frayed. I also needed a pair," said Trapper, in a laid-back fashion.

"It's safer than the potato on your tray, Sid," offered James. Sidney had been about to take a bite when he stopped and lowered his spoon.

"You think it's all right to eat this junk again?" he whispered to the two surgeons. "The serving man over there whispered quite frenetically that it wasn't."

James replied, "Well, Trap here took a bite a few days back, and nothing much happened to him. Yet." Trapper looked at James and nodded drunkenly. Sidney leant over and plucked the hip-flask out of Trapper's hands. "That's quite enough for now," the Major said sternly as Trap began to whimper.

"As I was saying," James continued, "our inebriated friend here munched on them and he's still on his feet, thankfully. So I see no reason why you should suddenly fall sick. Then again, he might know better than us."

"He might," smiled Sidney as he took a munch, "but I have a general distrust of Sergeants." He stared as the second mound of potato fell off his spoon. "Disgusting. This, not the Sergeant."

The three continued to converse as occasionally enlisted men or squeamish nurses would steal a glance at Sidney and the potato caught in his moustache.

As Sidney finished his lunch and Trap woke sufficiently to participate in conversation, the three stood up, intending to retire to the Swamp for a game of poker. James walked out the door first and was about to look back to see if the others were following him when an unmistakeably loud splutter caught his attention.

He whirled around to see Sidney clutching at his throat, coughing violently. Trapper, his surgeon's instincts kicking in, rushed around the other side of the table and whacked Sidney twice between the shoulder blades. Sid kept coughing and spluttering: his face was slowly becoming a dangerous shade of blue. Trap looked at James urgently, who mouthed the words "I don't know!" with a frightened expression to match. The Mess Tent was abruptly, eerily silent, save for Sidney, who had now begun to froth at the mouth. Trapper held the Major still with one hand and slapped him hard, one last time. Sidney leant over the wooden trestle seat and retched, his cheeks now turning red with embarrassment.

James and Trapper exchanged dark looks. James helped a shaking Sidney up and out of the Mess Tent. The bubbling chatter slowly resumed, though with hushed undertones and sneaked looks at the door, Trapper and the servery. Rodriguez was nowhere in sight.

Trapper pursed his lips. Though shaken, he was certain Sidney's diaphragm had not partaken in a coughing fit just of the hell of it. He stomped to the servery at the back of the Mess Tent, as whispered conspiracy theory pulled at his heels. He, Trapper John Francis Xavier McIntyre (silently he cursed his parents for bestowing upon him such a mouthful of a name), was not going to let this series of hazardous deeds go unpunished. His fist smacked his palm of its own accord in a visible sign of over-exertion and good-hearted determination.

As he pulled open the door to the kitchen, he was greeted by pots, pans and potato peelings strewn everywhere, evidence of a job half-finished. A silvery vial, half-empty, stood next to the biggest pot, the only piece of crockery still on the table. Multiple sets of floury footprints led to the outside door.

Trapper was just about to leave when his ears caught a small, distinctly human noise. His senses on high alert, Trapper crept to the kitchen corner not visible from the door. Upon reaching it, he stopped, eyes disbelieving. Sitting on a crate covered in flour and potato peelings sat Sergeant Fernando Rodriguez, weeping into the hazy silence.

_Please review. Sorry for the bad chapter ending._


	15. Chapter 15

_To you, the reader: if you have previously read over this story and not left a comment, I urge you to leave one today. Even a simple "Your story stinks!" would be appreciated, if only to gauge the relative popularity of this tale. Seriously. Bad reviews are, in a way, better than good ones because it helps me to improve. I have so far met no one who truly enjoyed reading bad fanfiction._

_Note: I also stole one line from "Never Have Your Dog Stuffed." Sorry, I couldn't help myself. _

**Chapter 15**

"Sergeant?"

Trapper had been expecting quite a lot of things as he opened the kitchen door. He was prepared for a brawl, a heated argument, even an innocent conversation with the kitchen staff, whom he'd been quietly hoping to yell at. Opening the door to find the kitchen a floury mess and Rodriguez sobbing into his boots had startled the usually unflappable Trapper John.

The Captain stepped towards Rodriguez, who looked up at the sound of Trapper's boots on the wooden floor. His tanned and weather-beaten face was red and tear-stained, his dark brown eyes a picture of despondency. It seemed almost disjointed to the rest of his built, muscled body.

"Sergeant, are you all right?"

Rodriguez's chin began to wobble, and could only manage to shake his head before beginning a fresh round of crying. Trapper couldn't help but notice sardonically the resemblance between Rodriguez's shirt and Frank's underwear, now used as a filter in the still. "Come on. Let's get you outta here," he muttered, hauling Rodriguez up off the crate and towards the door leading outside.

Since everyone else was still munching unhappily in the Mess Tent, Trapper and Rodriguez were able to slip through the compound unnoticed on their way to the Swamp. Once inside, Trapper led Rodriguez to the chair next to Hawkeye's bunk and passed him a drink, which the Sergeant accepted gratefully. Trap plonked himself onto the bunk itself. The covers lay unmade, just as they had for the past three days.

It was hard for Trapper to believe all this had happened within a week. Time had journeyed ahead of the Captain: he was in danger of losing sight of it altogether. Just days ago Hawkeye was joking, flirting and working as always, but his sudden, mysterious illness had turned the camp on its tush.

"Cap'n McIntyre?"

Rodriguez's sandpapered voice startled Trapper out of his reverie. The Sergeant had downed his martini entirely, though the tears continued to drip down his face.

"I'm so sorry, Captain. I-I shouldn't have done it…"

"Done what?" Trapper was beginning to feel a little edgy – Rodriguez must have done something terrible in order to choke up _this_ bad…

"It's all my fault Major Freedman's dead!"

"_What?_" Trapper took the martini glass out of the Sergeant's hands and held him by the shoulders. "Look, don't be stupid. Sidney's not dead-"

"But I-I tried to warn him! I told him 'don't eat those taters' and he ate 'em anyway and now look what's happened!" Rodriguez tried to turn away in shame but found he could not, as Trapper was still holding onto his shoulders. "I did all I could." He began to sob into his shirt as Trapper rolled his eyes and rooted around unsuccessfully for a clean hanky.

"Rodriguez?"

"Yes, s-s-sir?" he muttered, through choked tears.

"You _warned_ Sidney about those potatoes?" asked Trapper, confused and trying to be stern.

"I did, sir."

"So you must have known what was in them."

A nod of the head. "It was my idea at first. Just a simple flavour-booster, those potatoes barely qualify for such a name." Trapper's left eyebrow shot up at the mention of 'flavour-booster' but kept his mouth shut. "Something to mask the taste. Rizzo, in his very finite wisdom, had the idea of arsenic. Now I'm a simple man, y'see. I'm just a simple man from Yuma, Arizona who took three goes to graduate high school. So when Rizzo brought up arsenic I had no idea it was a poison."

Trapper's mind was trying to work overtime in order to think ahead of Rizzo but found its radiator tended to overheat.

"Rizzo said he knew a Korean merchant out of town who sold it," continued Rodriguez, dragging Trapper's mind back to reality. "He said he wanted me to get it, I dunno why."

"Because he didn't want to be seen buying poison?" offered the Captain.

"Yeah, that'd work," nodded Rodriguez thoughtfully. "So I went to purchase this arsenic, using Rizzo's cash. The merchant was more than happy to give us what we were after. I went back to the kitchen and Rizzo took it from me, saying that he'd, er, now what'd he say?... He'd 'put it to good use,' but I didn't know what that would be.

"Now here's where Frank comes in."

The mention of 'Frank' shot Trapper's attention-o-meter sky high. His whole body seemed to jolt as if someone had succeeded in hotwiring his engine.

"Frank? As in Frank I'm-only-in-it-for-the-money Burns?"

"The very same," grinned Rodriguez through his rainy face. "For some reason, no one knows why, Major Burns came into the kitchen asking if we wanted any help. Now you know that Major Burns hates us enlisted men like cockroaches, so we were all really suspicious. We did everything three times to make sure we didn't mess up and he'd put us on report. But he was real laid back and everything, like we was all pals. He even wanted to serve up that crap! We let him; we figured it would help us get a start on that backlog of pots and pans we've had since the bugout."

"The bugout was three-and-a-half months ago!"

"I know that. It's a sign of how slow we are. Even with Rizzo dragged over from the motor pool we're still understaffed." Rodriguez threw his hands in the air, almost as in surrender.

"What could we say? People want their food served in clean pans. Can't see it makes a hell of a difference, but anyway… Rizzo did whatever it was he did and bingo, Captain Pierce goes haywire. I saw Rizzo do it the night before Captain Pierce went sleeptalkin'. Rizzo just winked at me and Igor, like he was saying 'we did it, fellas.' Frank – I mean Major Burns-"

"You mean Ferret Face," interjected Trapper with a wry smile.

"…Yeah, I suppose I mean him…" said Rodriguez absent-mindedly. "Anyhow, Major Burns came in the next day and said nothin'. As in _nothin' at all_. We was all expecting him to whoop and shout and make a fuss, but he came in and served his food and kept his mouth shut.

"But that night, when Igor and I heard what went on out there, apparently Major Burns got sick too, because _you_ found him the next day with puke all over his front," stated Rodriguez, pointing at Trapper at the appropriate moment. "So we – that being Rizzo, Igor and my bad self – figured maybe Major Burns had eaten the wrong potato, 'cos we made two batches, one for Captain Pierce and whoever else owed Rizzo money and one for everyone else. Maybe he forgot which one was which. He could have been tryin' to commit suicide for all I know," said Rodriguez, startling Trapper, who hadn't for once considered that possibility.

Continued Rodriguez, in a clearer voice, "I dunno. But Major Burns ended up with gastro, Captain Pierce ended up with what we reckon was arsenic poisoning and all, but we ain't doctors, so he might have dysentery and whooping cough for all we know. The Colonel came in to help for whatever reason, so we had to hide the you-know-what while we convinced him he had better things to do with his time.

"When we ran outta the arsenic – I don't know how much we used each time, Rizzo took care o' that – he sent me again to Mr. Korean Merchant Man to fetch some more."

"Wait – you _kept putting it in?!_" cried Trapper.

"Yeah, so as to 'prolong his symptoms,' or somethin' like that, as Rizzo so grandly put it. Why else d'ya think Captain Pierce was screaming every night? We cook Post-Op's food too, don't forget."

Trapper made a mental note to never let the kitchen staff near patients again, his overactive head skipping the practicalities of the idea.

"Anyhow, I got sent to buy it. I saw something out of the corner of my eye that looked like Captain Pierce's bathrobe, but I figured he wasn't supposed to be out walkin'. There's enough dried blood out these parts to dye a bathrobe that colour."

Trapped nodded in subdued agreement.

"So I thought nothing of it; I got the stuff and walked back and gave it to Rizzo. But I was getting pretty scared by this point, 'cos you and Captain McCulloch were rootin' around trying to find out why Captain Pierce went crazy. Now today, for example, I knew Rizzo prepped two batches of 'taters. I think he was tryin' to get rid of Major Freedman, your mind doctor friend. But, y'see, I like Major Freedman. He's a good man. And though I've gotten on the wrong side of Captain Pierce plenty, I have a bit more respect for Major Freedman than most officers on this base."

"So you thought it was all right to poison Hawkeye but not Sidney?!" Trapper thundered, stormclouds gathering over his head.

"I didn't say that," replied Rodriguez innocently. "I just like Major Freedman, is all. So I went out front and served my stuff. When the Major came along, I whispered to him 'I wouldn't eat those if I were you,' and tried to look serious, but he glared at me as if I didn't know what came outta my mouth and pointed to the 'taters. The bad batch. And what with him bein' a Major and me bein' a Sergeant and all, I had no choice! I couldn't bear to look at him when he… started… pukin' and all…" Rodriguez's words dissolved into tears as his shirt was soaked.

Trapper looked away, partly out of respect for privacy and partly out of disgust at Rodriguez's words. He needed to talk to Rizzo, fast.

It was in situations such as these Trapper would normally sit somewhere waiting for a brainwave that never came. This was not a normal situation. (Then again, he mused, what was considered "normal" around here?) He'd punt Rodriguez out of the way, have a sleep before his Post-Op duty at six (in four hours, he noted), _then_ go after Rizzo. It was more fun arguing with enlisted men when they thought they could win.

…oooOOOooo…

"You owe me seventeen dollars and thirty-two cents, _Private_."

After another midnight enlisted men's poker game, Sergeant Luther Rizzo was feeling quite full of himself. Lacking the motivation to teach a half-dozen new subordinates how to shoot craps, they'd settled for a more conventional game of poker. Not much else in camp beat, for Rizzo, the satisfaction of cleaning out new men's pockets.

"Er-er-er yessir, I will pay you as soon as I can sir." The degree to which the Private was shaking equalled his substantial advantage in height.

"I don't want it as soon as you can. I want it _now_," snarled Rizzo, unable to keep the corners of his mouth turning upwards and thus ruining his fearsome image.

"But sir, I can't pay you back now. I promise you'll get it by payday."

"Sergeant Rizzo?"

Rizzo looked over his shoulder, only to meet the eye of Captain McIntyre. The Sergeant turned around, put on his best "I'm tough" face and growled, "Whaddya want?"

Trapper stepped forward decisively, with the serenity of a blond soldier who never saw the bullet. He replied, "I'd like a few words with you, Sergeant."

"Now?"

"Now. Follow me to my office, now doubling as bedroom, saloon and bar." Trapper motioned to the Swamp.

After muttering a few curses he'd once learnt from a drunk Marine, Rizzo grumpily followed his superior to said office. The Private stood where he was, wondering when or if the Captain was going to dismiss him. It took several minutes for him to realise Captain McIntyre wasn't coming back.

…oooOOOooo…

Five thousand light-years away on planet morphine, Hawkeye Pierce was exhibiting all the signs of a patient held in bed against his will. On advice from Radar, Henry Blake had gone into "I am your commanding officer" mode and ordered a 24-hour watch on everyone's favourite surgeon. Unfortunately, Radar's influence had not extended to talking Henry out of demolishing a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch. This had resulted in an amusing attempt by Henry to sing, out of key, "My Blue Heaven" to the tune of "The Star-Spangled Banner." Truth be told, it could just as easily have been the other way around. Henry wasn't renowned for his singing prowess.

"Henry, shut up!" called Hawkeye from his Post-Op bed, where Henry's murder of America's national anthem wafted by them like a bad smell.

"When will-poor-whips call, by dawn's early light…"

"Shh, Hawkeye, you've got to stay and rest," cooed the nurse on duty. She was new, Hawkeye noted, a pretty young thing, on the short side with strawberry-blonde hair and dark brown eyes. She also didn't seem the slightest bit interested in him, he realised, disappointed. Since his loss of half a deck roughly a week ago, his heavy-breathing opportunities had been drying up noticeably.

"Can I have a look at my chart?" he asked, gleefully.

"No, you _know_ you're not allowed. How could you possibly ask such a thing?" she snapped. The halo disappeared. All of a sudden, she wasn't so attractive anymore.

"You new nurses are no fun," he fumed, pouting like a five-year-old.

"We're not supposed to be," Blonde Cranky Nurse replied briskly, waving her wedding ring in Hawkeye's sulking face as she walked by.

"Could you at least get Henry to stick another Scotch bottle in his mouth? It'd drown out that racket he's making."

"…a li-ttle nest that's… that the flag was still there…"

Hawkeye grimaced and tried to cover his ears with his pillow.

"Just Molly and me, the Spang-Startled Banner makes three…" warbled Henry, mixing up tunes as he stumbled through Post-Op. "Oh, Pierce, care to join me for a walk?"

"Sir, I don't think that's a good idea," chirped Blonde Cranky Nurse, as she appeared to goosestep over from her paperwork.

"No, it's fine, he's with me, Lieu… Lieut… Nurse. Come on, Pierce," called the inebriated one as he waved Hawk over.

"Co-coming, sir," replied Hawkeye as he stumbled past Blonde Cranky Nurse and followed Henry out of Post-Op, together whistling an off-key round of "Mississippi Mud" as they went.

Once they were both in the compound, Henry abruptly veered on an off-course for the latrine. Hawkeye kept wandering, the after-effects of the morphine wearing off. His stomach was only just starting to bother him again when he chanced by the Swamp.

"Don't lie to me, Sergeant Rizzo, unless you want to try on something lower for size!"

At first Hawkeye couldn't recognise the author of these harshly-sprayed words. His attention scrambled as he listened more closely, hidden in a bush and out of sight.

"I'm tellin' ya, I dunno nothin' about this whole scam! Rodriguez's talkin' shit to ya!"

"You try talking filthy with me, you'll be getting filthy at Leavenworth! Don't make it worse for yourself!"

Trapper?! Hawkeye couldn't believe his ears. It just wasn't in his character to be getting so angry! Trapper was supposed to be the docile one. Yet here he was, ripping off Rizzo's ears! What was this scam he was talking about?

" 'Nando's only been here three weeks! You gonna doubt me, your loyal kitchen-and-motor-man for five months?" Rizzo pleaded, cheese dripping.

"Yes, I am gonna doubt you! Now, if you don't start talking straight, I will personally pull your hangman's noose! I am holding you and Rodriguez – mostly you – fully responsible for my best friend lying in Post-Op, sick to his stomach. If you co-operate, you might keep your life. _Might_," said Trapper, his voice a growled whisper.

As the morphine's effects wore off, the pain in Hawkeye's stomach increased exponentially. It wouldn't have occurred to the robed rascal to use a word of that length, however. His mind was fixed firmly on Trapper's words.

"Well, now ya put it that way… Nup. Not tellin' ya nothin'." Rizzo was very smug.

"You know, you're acting pretty shiftily for a guy who swears on his mama's Bible he's got nothing to hide," whispered Trapper threateningly, mimicking Rizzo's Louisiana accent.

"I'm-I'm not… hidin'… nothin'," stuttered Rizzo.

Hawkeye peeped up from his bushy hiding-place just as Trapper grabbed Rizzo by the throat -

_He grabbed him by the throat?!_

- and pushed him down onto Frank's (empty) cot, in lieu of tent-walls. Rizzo spluttered and fought furiously to free himself, but was held down at the neck and abdomen by Trapper's hands of steel.

"You feel that, Sergeant Rizzo? You choking nicely there?"

Hawk winced as Rizzo attempted to scream through his pain: it came out as a sort of half-silenced shout from someone with a sore throat. No one came running.

"You're feeling just a bit of what Hawk's had to feel. Not fun now, is it? IS IT?!"

Hawkeye had to talk every obedient muscle he owned into staying still. Everything inside Hawk was screaming at him to save Rizzo's neck from Trapper and Trapper from himself. He still couldn't believe how his best friend was reacting. This was completely out of his character.

"I…I…" the Sergeant managed to get out through his iron neck brace.

"You what?" hissed Trapper, releasing his grip.

"I did it," mumbled Rizzo through a coughing fit. "You got me."

Neither meek Sergeant nor irate Captain noticed a loud rustle in the bushes outside the Swamp. They did, however, have no choice but to notice the abrupt entry of an unexpected visitor. He was draped in a red bathrobe, eyes wide and disbelieving, balance out of kilter. His name was Hawkeye Pierce, and he'd heard every word they'd said.


End file.
